


The Prisoner of the Lake

by ladyofpride



Series: Reverie [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dark, M/M, but still somewhat funny, it's like the Grimms' Fairytales meet the Swan Princess meets Hans Christian Anderson, mermaid au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 07:58:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 86,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15636522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofpride/pseuds/ladyofpride
Summary: Lured into the Apagorev Forest under the premise of finding a weapon powerful enough to defeat the dark sidhe King Zolomon, Prince Bartholomew of the House of Allan finds himself trapped in a foreign land and an almost equally foreign body. The clock is ticking down on his surrender to Zolomon before this unusual transformation becomes a permanent problem. He's convinced there's no hope of him ever returning to his friends and family.Then along comes Len...[A Fantasy/Mermaid AU for the 2018 Coldflash Gift Exchange]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **To my giftee** : I chose two of your requests, ‘Mermaid AU’ and ‘Fantasy AU’, because they go hand in hand so well. At the same time, I've never written anything in the fantasy genre before, which turned out to be a greater challenge than I anticipated. I apologize if this story therefore comes off as a bit campy. I tried to go down the "Grimms’ Fairy Tale" route to keep it serious but ended up injecting a little more humor than I initially intended. This strange beast is what I eventually ended up with. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it, even if it is tremendously long.
> 
>  **Special thanks** goes to my husband, Erik, who essentially stepped up to bat to type out my story as I narrated it after I broke my arm and collar bone. Finishing this story would not have been possible without him. I love you, honey.
> 
>  **Disclaimer** : I borrowed lines from standard marriage ceremonies and the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II for a small portion of this fic, because I'm a bit unimaginative when it comes to legally binding oaths.

On the fifth day of their journey, Barry begins to wonder if this little side-quest of theirs was such a good idea.

They only just crossed the border from his father’s land into the Apagorev Forest yesterday afternoon and Barry’s been desperate for a little sunlight ever since. The canopy overhead is so thick and twisted, their perilous path is only dimly lit by a gray haze during the daylight hours. At night, glowing spores flutter down from the branches above, clinging to their hair and clothes. Barry finds it hard not to feel suffocated; trapped.

There is something in here that is clearly… _unnatural_.

The only two things keeping him from turning back now are his sense of duty to his kingdom and the continued guidance of Harrison Wells, his long-time friend and mentor. Wells has spent the better part of a month exploring the Apagorev Forest already and perhaps now knows it better than any other person alive. Granted, Wells only came here himself to investigate the rumored sightings of his missing wife, but Barry trusts his judgement like no other. If he claims to have found a weapon powerful enough to vanquish King Zolomon, Barry is willing to spare the time and effort necessary to retrieve it.

All the same, Barry wishes he hadn’t outright lied to his father about the week-long hunting trip they were supposedly on. The king was ill almost constantly these days. Barry didn’t want to think about the awful turn his health would take if he realized his son had left the sanctuary of their kingdom.

Eventually, the vegetation thins out a little, the dull gray haze brightening enough that Barry can see the knotted roots he’s been tripping over since they wandered in here. In fact, the forest as a whole continues to brighten as they finally stumble upon a large clearing—

It’s a beach, really, made of compacted silt and sand and clay. There’s a half-rotten dock extending out from it into what appears to be a bog, one which is occupied by bald cypress and black tupelo trees, their thick trunks extending far below the water’s surface. The water itself is unnaturally clear. Barry can see a school of fish darting across the rocks below, their small silver bodies shimmering in the sunlight.

Barry takes a moment to soak in said sunlight before he turns to Wells. The man is staring out across the bog as he absently fiddles with the medallion around his neck, an intricate knot of silver and gold that he’s only started wearing in recent weeks.  

“Is this the place?” Barry asks, letting his sack slip from his shoulder. His neck aches and his legs burn, but he knows he’s going to feel a lot worse after he’s done in the water. Swimming was never his forte. “It doesn’t look like much of a lake…”

“The trees peter off and the body widens farther out,” Wells assures him, waving vaguely toward the water. “But that doesn’t matter. You don’t have far to go to find what you’re searching for.”

Barry was half-hoping something that at least _resembled_ a boat would be near at hand, but then that would be too easy. Crestfallen, he begins undoing the buttons on his long-coat, eyes scanning the beach for a relatively clean spot to set his clothes down. “How did you find the place?” he asks, silently grateful that Wells keeps his eyes politely glued to the so-called lake as he disrobes.

“I encountered it on the seventh day of my last trip into the forest. A sidhe had set up camp over there—” Without turning, he gestures to a fallen log and what appears to be the remnants of a small camp. Barry tosses his coat onto the log and gets to work on his shirt. “He told me if you meditate beneath the water’s surface long enough, the thing you desire most will materialize before you.”

Barry pauses on the last button. “…Are you sure he wasn’t lying? The fae normally don’t give anything away for free, least of all knowledge.”

“I traded knowledge for knowledge,” Wells replies. “If I had any reason to doubt his word, I wouldn’t have brought you here, Your Highness.”

Which is true enough. Wells has always been a skeptic. He was often critical to the extreme at times, even more so than Clifford.

All the same, the trustworthiness of the sidhe is only half the problem. “How’s this supposed to work then?” Barry asks, resuming his work. “Because I can’t hold my breath indefinitely. Do I need to be fully submerged?”

“Yes, but I’ve already taken your predicament into consideration.” Wells takes a moment to rummage for something in one of his coat pockets before he holds the object up above his shoulder for Barry to see. Pinched between his forefinger and his thumb is what appears to be a small seed. “There are a group of people who dwell by the ocean and retreat into it when danger is near at hand. These seeds afford them the ability to survive underwater and allow them to bestow that same gift on others with a kiss.”

His late mother used to tell Barry stories of sirens and selkies, but he’d never heard of such a seed before. Granted, it sounds like something such people would want to conceal from the outside world. In fact, he can easily envision a foreign army marching beneath the waves, silently approaching an unsuspecting fishing village in the distance…

“I’ve tested them myself,” Wells says, almost as an afterthought. He obviously realizes how extraordinary this all sounds.

But Barry’s already seen the extraordinary, and Wells is a seasoned sorcerer, so after he’s kicked off his trousers and grabbed his steel dagger, Barry steps forward to pluck the tiny seed from Wells’ fingers. His companion then politely twists around as Barry proceeds toward the water. He pauses a moment here to dip his foot in.

It’s freezing.

“Oh my god…”

“Better make it quick,” Wells says, back still turned. “Wade out a bit and then swallow the seed whole. Don’t chew. It tastes awful.”

Barry shuffles his other foot forward into the water, shuddering at the chill that races up his spine. It takes him longer than he would like to admit before he treads out to a spot where the water is up to his shoulders. His toes sink a little into the silty bottom of the lake beside one of the bald cypress trees, which he leans against with his right fist, fingers curled around the hilt of his dagger.

By now, Wells has turned to watch him. He eyes the dagger. “There are no large predators in the water,” he says. “It’s just you out here and the softer sounds of nature.”

Wells sometimes gets weird in his wisdom, so Barry ignores him as he finally pops the seed into his mouth. As advised, he swallows it whole.

He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to wait for something to happen or if he should duck his head under the water now. So he waits a moment and says, “Do I—”

Then it hits him.

It feels like a cold finger dragging down the inside of his throat and further still into his stomach. It radiates outward before he’s seized by a powerful cramp just below his navel. He gasps in pain, pressing his empty hand against his abdomen.

The corner of Harrison’s mouth twitches into a smile.

A second cramp hits him immediately after the first. It lasts a little longer, spreading down into his thighs, seizing up his legs. He collapses under the surface of the water on the third cramp, losing hold of his dagger.

He grabs the hardened roots of the bald cypress tree and pulls himself back up for air. He was under for only a few seconds and already his lungs are burning. “ _Harry_ ,” he gasps.

Distantly, he hears the sound of Wells’ boots as his companion walks out onto the dock. Frightened, Barry pushes away from the tree, trying to push himself hard enough to glide out toward his mentor. However, he sinks beneath the surface again, thrashing wildly as every muscle in his legs spasm. He screams into the water before he somehow manages to push himself off the bottom of the lake, reaching blindly for some sign of salvation.

His hand hits the dock and his heart sinks as it slips back off, but then Wells curls his fingers around Barry’s arm just above the elbow and pulls him a foot up out of the water. He doesn’t do much more than that though, kneeling on the dock, watching Barry as he writhes in agony.

“ _Harry_ ,” he gasps again. After the next wave of cramps, his muscles suddenly feel warm and useless. There’s something viscous clinging to his knees and thighs. The skin sticks together in the most peculiar way when his legs rub against each other.

“Harrison Wells is indisposed,” his companion murmurs, holding out his amulet with his free hand. He stares at it in a bemused sort of way before dropping it against his chest again. “My name is Eobard Thawne, loyal servant of Zolomon, the rightful King of the Sidhe.”

“What—why…why would you…” Barry can barely speak through the pain. He feels as though something’s been torn and broken—inside his abdomen, inside his legs. He would never wish this agony on his enemies.

“He has a proposition for you,” Eobard continues, uncaring of his suffering. “But we can discuss the matter further once you’re coherent again.”

And with that, he releases his grip on Barry’s arm, watching as the paralyzed boy sinks down into the clear water, the lower half of his body twisting, breaking, and rearranging into something devastating beyond compare.

And still, Eobard smiles.

~***~

It’s nightfall by the time Eobard returns to the mountains, the shadows in the corner of the room rippling, reality tearing, as he deftly transverses the gap between Here and There as only he knows how. Far behind him, in the Apagorev Forest, Barry languishes in the lake, cold, alone, and afraid.

Eobard thinks his imprisonment there will weaken the boy’s resolve quite nicely.

The only light in the room comes from the dying embers in the fireplace and the long strip of moonlight from the window beside the bed. In the darkness, Eobard can make out Hunter Zolomon’s dark figure propped up against the pillows, wide awake and waiting. The tang of blood is still sharp in the air. Only a few days ago, Zolomon overtook the fortress and felled the House of Wayne, but not before he was cut down by an iron blade. As it stands now, he’s lucky to be alive. It’ll take a small eternity for him to recuperate.

“How fares the prince?” Zolomon asks, his voice low and level. Eobard can barely hear the way it hitches slightly on that last word. The king masks his pain well.

Eobard folds his hands together behind his back, smiling a small smile, satisfied with the work he’s accomplished today. “He’s trapped in the Apagorev Forest, far from his mother’s protective ward. He’s aware that the price of his freedom is a vow of everlasting loyalty to you.”

“And he said no,” Zolomon muses, more as a statement than a question.

“Of course,” Eobard replies, not the least bit concerned. They both expected as much. “But he’s hardly going anywhere. By the time you’ve recuperated, his spirit will be soft and tempered. Whether he realizes it or not, he _will_ bow before your command.”

“His father’s kingdom is the last to stand against us,” Zolomon says softly. There’s a pause then, as he takes a slow, deep breath, as if his lungs were on fire. “I can be patient.”

Eobard has no doubt about that. With the exception of King Henry’s land, they’ve already taken the rest of the continent. Zolomon knows how to wait his enemies out.

Barry has an eternity of solitude to look forward to if he doesn’t comply.

~***~

~**~

~*~

*

~*~

~**~

~***~

~One year later~

~***~

Crouching low in the thicket behind the inn, he listens for the sound of footsteps on the gravel road between here and the stables. It was tricky picking out the specifics over the jovial sound of people dancing and singing inside the small dining hall at his back, but Len knows what he’s searching for. To his ears, it often sounded like the soft crunch of snow underfoot despite the fact that it never snows this far south.

After a beat, he does, in fact, hear it—hears _them_. He can tell by the fact that they can’t be bothered to mask their noise that there’s a whole squad of them on his tail. Six or seven of them, he thinks. It would appear his father has upped the number of flunkies he’s willing to send after Len in recent days.

He can tell they’re somewhere around the north side of the building, trying to move slowly to better control the illusion that they’re not there at all. Townsfolk pass by, blissfully unaware. Len wonders how drastically their sense of security would change if they knew the sidhe were always much closer than they ever assumed before.

Len takes a quick estimate of how far he is from the smithy. Five paces. The window to the left of the back door is wide open, as always. Len can get there before anyone spots him.

Quietly, he adjusts his weight, bouncing on the balls of his feet, before sprinting out of the bush. There’s a moment of stunned silence from his pursuers as they try to determine the source of the ruckus, but by the time he hears them moving again he’s already dived headfirst through the window.

He lands on a small heap of burlap sacks stuffed with straw, the so-called landing pad Len threw together the last time he was here, tired of bruising himself up on the floor. To his left, Mick freezes with his mug of ale halfway to his lips, still chewing on the last bite of his meal. The other man rolls his eyes at the sight of Len, swallowing the lump of food in his mouth as he pushes himself to his feet and makes his way over to the window.

Amaya is standing just on the other side, her silver eyes fixed on the roaring fire inside Mick’s humble abode. Already well aware of what Mick’s response will be, she sighs heavily and half-heartedly asks, “Can we come i—”

“No.”

Mick doesn’t spare the armored sidhe a second thought as he slams the window shut and pushes the inner wooden shutters closed. When Amaya taps the glass to get his attention again, he adds a sharp “ _Piss off_!” for good measure.

Len rises gingerly to his feet, annoyed by the fire, even though it’s all the way at the other side of the room. He adjusts the belt around his waist, checking that he hasn’t lost his dagger, and then turns to Mick. “No ‘hello’?” he quips.

“They’re on my roof again,” Mick grumbles, thrusting his finger up into the air. Sure enough, Len can hear their soft footfalls overhead. “I just thatched it.”

“As always, you will be compensated for your woes,” Len sighs, reaching for one of the small pouches tucked away in his overcoat’s inner pockets. There are twenty small rubies in there. He counted them out before booking it from the magistrate’s office, well aware that his father’s lackeys had gotten a whiff of him a few days ago and were slowly closing in.

He tosses the pouch to Mick, who grins and pockets it without checking. They’ve been friends and fellow thieves since before Len was old enough to fend for himself. Despite their many disputes, Mick still trusts him like no other.

“Cutting it kind of close lately,” Mick remarks, grabbing his mug off the table to take another swig. The way he limps slightly suggests his old war wounds are acting up again, though he would rather die than admit to the pain.

“He’s getting anxious,” Len murmurs, eyeing the ceiling. ‘ _He_ ’, of course, is King Leuis of the sidhe, the bastard who left Len’s human mother to fend for herself once she realized she was with child. Len doesn’t understand his father’s sudden interest in having Len at his beck and call again after a childhood of neglect, but the constant harassment has gotten to be _beyond_ annoying at this point in his life.

He wants nothing to do with the world below or the pathetic excuse of a sidhe who sired him.

Leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, Len closes his eyes and listens. He can hear Amaya and her soldiers retreating, pained by the effort it takes to remain within the vicinity of any place they’re clearly uninvited. It will be sunrise soon. If they don’t return to the world of the sidhe before then, the sunlight will begin to drain them of their strength.

 “You want me to track Hartley down?” Mick offers, taking up his seat at the table. He wiggles his fingers mysteriously before digging back into his meal. “Ya know…to do his _thing_?”

Hartley Rathaway is a disgraced sorcerer’s apprentice who once served in the court of King Henry, although he’s only disgraced in the sense that he was ‘framed’ for murder. Apparently. His sorcery is really above par, so Len doesn’t really care whether or not he did whatever he’s been accused of. Len simply hopes to unravel the mystery behind his cloaking spell someday.

“Not yet,” Len sighs. “I’m heading north. There’s a forest called the Apagorev, the rumored hunting ground of Eobard Thawne. Amaya’s a smart girl. She’ll steer clear of Zolomon’s right hand man.”

“What about you?” Mick asks, giving him an odd look.

But Len says nothing. Only smiles.

Evading the sidhe and their fantastical traps is his specialty…

~***~

All the same, trekking through the forest is a _real_ treat.

Hacking away at the chaparral around his thighs, Len presses as far into the Apagorev as he dares goes. Which is pretty far, considering the proverbial devil on his heels. Every once in a while, he’ll get a whiff of ozone, the barest hint of a trap put in place by a summer sidhe. He’s assuming they all belong to Eobard, although he’s never met the man in person. Lise once told him the fellow is a master at his craft, with a headcount to rival their father’s, which is why his sudden interest in the forest is somewhat bizarre. Granted, it sits just outside the border of King Henry’s domain, but there’s still no way for Zolomon’s people to get past the wards here.

Eventually, the ground gives way to a wet kind of murk that makes the most disgusting noises whenever Len tries to lift his legs. Fortunately though, the vegetation gradually thins out, including the twisted canopy overhead. He can see a clear blue sky peeking through the black branches, sunbeams dancing in the darkness ahead of him until the mud gives way to a remarkably clear-watered bog. He stands on its beach for a moment and drinks in the view, marveling at the way the sunlight shimmers on the surface.

There’s a half rotten dock that stretches out about twenty feet from the beach. Since it’s the driest thing Len’s seen since he first stumbled into the forest, he drags his weary feet halfway out before crouching down for a rest. He senses no malevolence from the lake itself and is therefore confident enough to slips off his leather boots and dip his toes into the cool water. It feels heavenly after having been on the run for so long.

Now that he’s here, Len ponders on the next step of his journey. He was going to hit up Larns, a small town to the south, but Amaya has doubled down on her efforts to ensnare him in recent days and has caught up considerably the last few times she was sent to collect him. He fears he’s becoming too predictable. If he can find something that half-way passes as food here, he’ll have to hunker down and wait her out until she loses his scent again. There’s nowhere else he could safely hide.

Exhausted, he pulls his feet up and stretches out on his back, hands folded together over his stomach. The sunlight burns his face in a peculiar way, but he ignores it as he drifts off to sleep. In an hour or two, he’ll take a stroll around the bog to see what he’s dealing with here. Then he’ll figure out where best to set up camp.

Unfortunately, he only gets about twenty or so minutes into his nap, still lightly dozy when he hears the characteristic pop of fish kissing the surface of the water. At least, that’s what he assumes it is at first. Then there’s a much larger splash before a long stretch of silence, signifying the presence of a sizable predator, meaning there might be game big enough for him to eat tonight.

Quietly, Len carefully pinches off his right glove and then lays his arm down at his side. He’s caught fish by hand before. He can chill them with his touch if he concentrates hard enough, negating the need to fight them out of the water. He just has to be quick about it.

He opens his eyes and stares up at the sky. He sees blue and thinks about the cold, the ever-expanding void in his heart sucking in everything and giving nothing back in return. At the same time, he listens carefully for his prey. He can tell there’s something in the water beside him, lurking in the shadow of the dock. It’s likely lying in wait itself, prepared to lurch into action when a smaller fish shimmies by.

Len strikes first.

He rolls over onto his stomach, plunging his arm over the side of the dock and into the water. His fingers curl around something bony and thin, but he retracts his arm before he can decipher what it is exactly that he’s holding. Much to his surprise, it’s the most unappetizing shade of peachy cream and a great deal longer than he anticipated. Also, it has fingers.

…

It’s an arm.

Predictably, it’s attached to a person—a significantly underdressed person who throws a proper fit as Len’s steely grip chills him to the bone. Len releases him at once, but the damage is already done. The boy drops back into the water with a heavy splash, the flesh around his wrist already turning a ruddy shade of red before he disappears below the surface.

Len scrambles to his feet. He doesn’t make it a habit of attacking unsuspecting yokels, although hopefully this teaches the kid a lesson for sneaking up on someone. If he lives past this encounter, that is, because Len can’t see anything past the glaring reflection of sunlight. The boy should’ve surfaced by now…

Frowning, Len slips off his coat and begins undoing the buttons of his shirt. He’s divided on whether or not he _really_ wants to risk his life saving a moron from drowning…

But he probably should.

As he drops his shirt on the dock, he braces himself for his wet endeavour when he suddenly catches movement in the corner of his eye, down at the far end of the dock.

Len whips his head to the side and catches sight of the boy again, this time clinging to one of the dock’s rotten posts, half-hiding in the shade of the rickety old structure. He eyes Len warily and then glances down at his own arm, brows knitted together, confused and angry and clearly afraid, like he knows he should run but wants answers first.

Grateful that he isn’t going to have to take an unexpected dip today, Len holds his hands up, palms forward, in what he hopes is a sign of goodwill. “That was a mistake,” he admits. “I thought you were something else.”

The boy glances distrustfully between Len and his wrist again. Remarkably, it isn’t frostbitten and black, although by all rights the flesh should be necrotic by now. Instead, it’s now the same milky white as the rest of the kid.

“You’re one of the sidhe?” the boy asks, releasing his hold on the dock. He drops his arms below the surface of the water, which laps gently at his bare shoulders.

“Not entirely,” Len replies, even though the boy’s suspicions are more or less true. Almost anyone who can wield magic is, in one way or another, descended from the sidhe. “Aren’t you as well?”

The boy shakes his head but doesn’t elaborate. Maybe he’s a water nymph. They’re supposed to be immune to just about anything when they’re in their natural habitat. They’re also supposed to be agonizingly beautiful, which, quite frankly, is an apt enough description of the kid…

Whatever the case may be, Len doesn’t want any trouble. “I’m just looking for a place to rest,” he says, lowering his arms. “I won’t bother you. I promise.”

The boy’s eyes flicker toward the beach, something like hurt and fear flashing across his pretty little face. He suddenly looks quite ill. “It’s not safe here.”

Len pauses a moment to taste the air. He can still smell the ozone, but there’s nothing that indicates he’s in immediate danger. It’s just him and the kid right now. “I think I’ll stay,” he drawls, admittedly curious to see what has the kid so spooked.

His wayward friend shakes his head again. “ _Leave_ ,” he mutters darkly before pulling himself under again.

Len waits a moment to see if the boy will return and then glances once more at the beach. There’s a large log tipped over by what looks like the remnants of a fire, a modest campsite that hasn’t been used in weeks. It could belong to the kid, but Len somehow doubts that. The boy approached the dock with great trepidation. Whatever else lives on this side of the forest has the kid scared straight.

Len picks up his shirt and slips it back on. Then he grabs his discarded coat and glove and heads back into the woods.

Despite the apparent danger, he still thinks this place will suit his needs quite nicely.

~***~

It’s with a heavy heart that Caitlin measures out another ounce of whirlwood powder and drops it into the king’s cup of blueberry tea. The concoction turns a vibrant shade of ruby red before fading back into purple, it’s delightful fragrance curling up into the air in small tendrils of steam.

She’s been a royal physician since her father’s passing five years ago, having only operated as his apprentice before then. She’s always had a knack for homeopathy though and attends to quite a few people both within and without the palace walls, having repeatedly demonstrated herself worthy of her title. Even so, the king’s ailment will forever remain one of her greatest challenges. It had been somewhat manageable when it first started, but ever since Barry vanished it’s gotten drastically worse. Most days, King Henry can barely find the strength to leave his bed.

Presently, he is meeting with his various advisors in his bedroom chambers, sitting right where Caitlin left him at his desk by the window. His mind, fortunately, is still as sharp as ever. He can run his kingdom just as efficiently, but more often than not lately she’s caught him staring wearily at the rolling hills through his window in the evenings. She knows his mind, at times, wanders much farther than that to a place no one can truly reach him.

Henry closes the afternoon session as soon as Caitlin returns with his medicine. Today, only four of his advisors are present: Christianna McGee, Marlize and Clifford Devoe, and Harrison Wells, the very latter of which looks as though he should be seeing a physician himself. He’s been perpetually ill for over a year now. Granted, his own daughter went missing not too long after Prince Bartholomew, but Caitlin knows how to manage grief. She’s helped pull the king out of the worst of his down-swings so far; she can probably help him too.

“Lord Wells,” she greets as the other advisors file out of the room. Wells is currently leaning over the king’s desk, inking out his signature on whatever law they’re in the process of pushing forward.

He dips the feather pen back into its well and raises his head to offer her a weary smile. “Lady Snow,” he returns.

“You should consider taking a trip to the countryside,” Henry says as he takes the pen and begins scratching his own signature beneath his advisor’s. “People like to joke that I’m standing at death’s doorway, and yet you often look worse than I do, Harry.”

“If you can find the strength to suffer through these trying times, my lord, so too must I.” Wells squeezes out one of his thin-lipped smiles, the kind he usually reserves for when he’s annoyed. “As it is, I think I’m managing quite well, don’t you?”

Caitlin arches a fine eyebrow in disagreement.

Henry winks at her. “Perhaps you should grab another cup of your special tea for our friend here.”

“I am more than capable whipping up something for myself,” Wells mutters, nodding first politely to the king and then Caitlin before straightening his waistcoat and marching toward the door. “I’ll be in my chambers if anybody needs me.”

“Good night, Harry,” Henry sighs, glancing back toward the window, resting his chin against his fist.

In the dying light, she swears he looks almost twice his age.

On the horizon, the sun is setting, painting the sky a vicious red. The king once told Caitlin he thinks of Bartholomew whenever he sees the sunset, watching that dying light wink out of existence, blanketing the world in darkness. He claims that he often sits and wonders what must be running through Barry’s mind as another day comes to its close.

Caitlin doesn’t have the heart to tell him she’s almost certain her childhood friend is dead.

Before he can get lost in his thoughts, she steps forward to deposit the cup of tea on his desk. “I’ve increased your dose. How have you been feeling this afternoon?”

He smiles at her and takes a sip. “Old,” he then chuckles, “and weak. But I haven’t been coughing as much lately. All in all, it hasn’t been such a bad day.”

“Any heart palpitations?”

“None.”

That was good. They’d had a bit of a scare last week when he woke one night claiming to have chest pain. She’d taken to sleeping in the servant’s annex and checking up on him periodically while he slept.

“You look tired,” Henry says quietly.

“I’m fine,” she replies, trying to laugh off his concern.

“Everyone lies about being ‘fine’, and I’m one of the worst offenders.” He takes another sip of his tea and waves her off. “Spend a night in your own bed for a change. The servants will continue taking shifts to watch over me.”

“It’s my job to take care of you,” she argues.

With a soft sigh, he grabs one of her hands and gives it a gentle squeeze, offering her a small smile, one that fails to lift the veil of darkness from his eyes.

She knows what he’s thinking. He’s thinking about how it was supposed to be her job to take care of Barry, to serve as the prince’s physician over the coming years.

Henry’s on his way out soon and he knows it.

She squeezes his hand in return. “I suppose the servants can manage one night on their own. But if anyone tries to murder you in your sleep, Clifford will have me executed.”

When Henry’s mysterious illness first came along and gradually worsened, a popular theory had been that someone was poisoning him on the regular. Clifford Devoe had been this theory’s greatest advocate and had every member of Henry’s court covertly monitored for suspicious activity. Besides the alarming number of extramarital affairs he’d uncovered and the fact that Harrison Wells enjoyed taking long strolls along the moor on moonlit nights as he so often did with his late wife, nothing ever came of it. Even so, Caitlin’s work was under constant scrutiny. If she ever slipped up on an ingredient or dose, she knew she’d be as good as dead.

Henry, of course, has often admitted to thinking Clifford is being a little paranoid.

“Lord West knows Clifford’s not allowed to do any such thing,” Henry assures her, relinquishing her hand. “Now go. You’ve done your duty for the day. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She certainly hopes so.

With a small bow, she leaves him to his musings, retreating downstairs through the servants’ passage to the kitchen and inner courtyard. She’ll grab something quick to eat and then experiment with some of the other herbs Cisco collected for her. With any luck, she’ll find something to help with the king’s recent heart arrythmia.

Speaking of Cisco, she finds her old friend at the far back of the kitchen by the door, stuffing what appears to be rations into his worn leather satchel. He’s simultaneously arguing with Lady West, which is never a good thing.

Caitlin feels her heart sink as she approaches. “You only just returned from your last trip,” she interjects, already well aware of what trouble her companion is probably getting up to now.

“You’ve spent all of six weeks in the palace this year,” Iris West adds, trying, as always, to whittle away at his incessant need to galivant off into the great unknown. “Wells is going to drop you as a student if you don’t stop running off like this.”

“Need I remind you,” Cisco chuckles in that strained way of his, clearly annoyed with being berated over his adventures _yet agai_ n by two of his closest friends, “that Harry gave me his blessing to leave so long as I continue bringing back items that are either valuable to my education or—” he gestures to Caitlin “—the education of others. So tell me: has the whirlwood moss not been the greatest thing ever or what?”

Caitlin smirks, her resolve softening at the reminder. “It’s been working rather well, actually.”

Cisco smiles.

“Correction,” Iris cuts in. “Wells said you can go anywhere _within_ the kingdom. A little birdie told me you’ve decided to widen your search perimeter outside the barrier.”

Caitlin suddenly feels as though all the air has been sucked out of her lungs. There’s no _way_ Cisco would be that stupid.

And yet the very severe look Cisco shoots Iris to cow her into keeping her voice down suggests otherwise.

The barrier in question was put in place by Queen Nora over a decade ago, back in the day when Zolomon still only had half the continent under his thumb. Nobody knew where the dark sidhe or his army came from, only that he had been slowly subjugating every acre of land between here and the far north, spreading as rapidly as a plague, cutting down whole monarchies in a manner of weeks. Rumor had it that he was the rightful heir to the world below, that the throne had been usurped from either him or his ancestors by King Leuis of the winter fae. According to a few old wives-tales, if every last soul on the continent bowed before any one man or woman alive, they would then claim the power to challenge the Ruler of the Sidhe for his throne and take control of both words.

In an unremarkably linear line of reasoning, it was therefore clear to anyone with half a brain that Zolomon was gearing himself up for revenge.

Now, Nora was the daughter of a sorcerer who served in the court of King Henry’s father, which was how she came to fall in love with and marry his son. Apparently, she’d been quite talented in the craft herself, but fell out of practice once she became occupied with her duties as the Queen. Even so, she apparently never lost her knack for it because she spent the better part of a year traveling the length of the border, weaving a spell that would bar King Zolomon or anyone who served him from entering the kingdom uninvited by a member of the House of Allan. So, either he came with the promise to discuss matters of peace or he shouldn’t bother coming at all.

He tried to enter uninvited anyway, of course. He lined his army up along the border, scaring half the population a fair distance south before King Henry gathered his own troops to confront him. Unfortunately, when Henry returned from his trek to the border, he said no words were ever exchanged between them. Zolomon simply sat atop his horse, concealed in his obsidian armor, watching Henry through the invisible barrier. Then Zolomon suddenly lifted his arm in some unspoken signal to his soldiers, who threw down their red capes before turning eastward and marching on to distant lands. Henry said it looked like a sea of blood was left in their wake as they retreated, a long stretch of red for as far as his eye could see.

Obviously, it was a promise he would return.

But he hadn’t returned, even after Nora’s health took an unexpected turn for the worse. The wards held after her sudden passing. Or, at least, they assumed they did. Caitlin doesn’t think they’ve seen any sign of Zolomon or his army in recent years. From time to time, someone foolish enough to cross the border will disappear indefinitely, but that only further goes to show that the barrier is still doing its job. So long as they remain in Henry’s kingdom, they will be protected.

Cisco’s plan to leave their little sanctuary is therefore nothing short of suicide.

The boy in question closes his eyes as if he needs a moment to collect his thoughts before he says, “I have spent the better part of a year scouring this kingdom for any sign of Barry and have so far come up with _zilch_. Between my efforts and the efforts of just about everyone other person in the court, we’ve uncovered nothing to suggest he’s still on our side of the barrier.”

“He was last spotted in a small village miles away from the eastern border,” Iris sighs. “The eastern border is pretty much a _river_ , Cisco. There’s no way Barry would’ve crossed it without knowing what he was doing. Besides, there’s another village _right there_ and nobody saw him or his group out on the water.”

Caitlin can already tell this whole discussion is about to go off the rails again, because Barry’s whereabouts in the last few hours he was seen alive are confusing at best. All that is known for certain is that he and Wells cut their hunting trip short when Wells fell ill outside the village of Carringham. Wells then began his trek home to the palace while Barry hired two locals, the sons of the resident blacksmith, to assist him in his trip. The three never returned to Carringham, although they were spotted at random in the surrounding forest for days afterwards, not once bothering to respond when anyone called out to them and often vanishing into thin air whenever someone approached them.

“I think it’s a misdirection by the sidhe,” Cisco counters. “And by ‘the sidhe’ I mean the one’s who aren’t serving Zolomon. Who else can cast an illusion like that?”

“But why would they want to make Barry disappear?” Caitlin sighs.

“No clue. That’s why I’m going to ask the sidhe.”

There’s a beat of silence before Iris says, “Don’t be stupid. That will _definitely_ get you killed.”

“Why? It’s not like I’m trying to open an unholy gate to the world below. A sidhe’s been spotted by the northern border. I’m going to see if I can trade any information with her.”

“A sidhe is always being spotted somewhere,” Caitlin points out. “There’s no guarantee she’ll still be there— _assuming_ she was really there to begin with.”

“Oh, she’s there alright.” Caitlin can see a light burning in his eyes now, that little spark of excitement he’s been lacking even since their mutual friend vanished into the aethers. “She’s been there for almost a month now, although nobody knows what she’s been doing above ground for so long.”

“All the more reason not to bother her.”

Pained by their continued rejections, Cisco pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “Guys…I’m going with or without your approval. Either give me a hug goodbye or buzz off. I don’t need this kind of negativity in my life right now.”

“You moron,” Iris huffs, right before she loops her arms around his neck and gives him a decent squeeze. “Please don’t die.”

“I won’t,” he says, returning her embrace. When they part, he sharply adds, “And tell Wallace I’m not bringing him any more souvenirs if he keeps ratting me out like this.”

“He’s just jealous you get to leave the palace grounds and we don’t.”

“We’ll have an epic adventure together someday. I promise.”

Caitlin steps up for her turn. It still pains her to see him go. He’s one of her oldest friends.

It would be devastating to lose him the same way they lost Barry.

She wonders if he can somehow read minds, because when he pulls away he looks her dead in the eyes and says, “He’s still alive, Caitlin. I can feel it.”

 _‘Feeling it’_ , of course, meant something different for him than it did for everyone else.

Cisco often described his nascent powers as a sense of perpetual humming in the air. He felt some unspoken quality of people in a form of vibrations, a steady beat at the base of his skull. The day Barry disappeared, there was a quickening of his unique signature, followed by a sudden standstill. Barry’s rhythm since then has been sluggish and faint, as if from very far away.

Caitlin wonders if he isn’t just sensing their friend on another plane of existence.

But she doesn’t have the heart to tell him that, so she just nods and offers him a small wave goodbye as he ducks out the kitchen doors and into the courtyard. He’ll be back in a couple of weeks, give or take a few days, and then life will go on as usual.

She hopes.

~***~

Barry spends the better part of the next two days languishing at the bottom of the lake.

It isn’t very deep, so the sunlight penetrates the water all the way down to the silty patch of sand and stone he’s half-buried himself under. In fact, as a closed lake fed only by one horribly inconsequential stream and drained by an equally disappointing one, it’s a remarkably shallow body of water. He can lie just about anywhere and stare up at the dappled sunlight as it dances across the surface. Sometimes, it drives the sadness away. At the very least, it prevents him from slipping into some timeless space in the back of his mind.

Barely anything lives in the lake. A few fish, snails, something that looks like seaweed—but otherwise it’s a desolate place. When Eobard said Barry would have an eternity of solitude to look forward to, he wasn’t joking.

Thinking of Eobard sends a chill down his spine. In his hand he clutches his rusted iron dagger and re-imagines the many ways he would cut the sidhe down, if only he could.

He tries not to let his mind drift to Eobard. He focuses instead on the stranger on the dock, the winter sidhe wandering about in the middle of the day. Barry always thought daylight weakened their kind, but he’s learned a lot since coming to the Apagorev Forest. This sidhe isn’t even the most peculiar visitor he’s had over the course of the year. Maybe Eobard won’t get to this one. Barry can always hope.

Just in case Eobard _has_ gotten to this one, Barry stays clear of the dock longer than he normally would, too afraid he’ll find the stranger’s mangled corpse out on display like many of the others, yet another reminder of his dismal situation. Barry already knows nobody is going to free him. It’s been a bitter pill to swallow, but he’s swallowed it nonetheless. Nobody can save him now but himself.

All the same, curiosity gets the better of him eventually and he drags himself up out of the mud to see if the stranger is still there. He takes his dagger with him this time, because even though the blade is dull, iron will always be lethal substance to the sidhe, and if this stranger means him harm, then Barry wants to be prepared.

The last time he approached the dock, the stranger somehow keened in on his presence despite his best efforts to remain unseen, so Barry surfaces a little ways out from his destination and scans the beach with his eyes. Much to his surprise, the man is still there, sitting on the dock, sharpening his sword. He glances over at Barry briefly before returning to his work, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“And here I thought I scared you off,” he says in a low drawl, a sound of what could easily be interpreted as either amusement or disdain. Barry has a feeling it’s the former. “Do you have a name, kid?”

Cautiously, Barry ducks his head under again and swims closer to the dock, rolling over onto his back as he drifts by the stranger. He can see the man leaning forward, his face peering down into the water as Barry passes.

Barry resurfaces to see the usual stunned expression that greets him whenever someone discovers what he really is.

Personally, it had also taken him quite some time to get used to the idea of having a fish tail instead of legs. The seed Eobard gave him, the one cursed by Zolomon himself, had broken down and completely rearranged his lower anatomy. The transition point from creamy white skin to garnet scales starts high on his hips and dips low beneath his navel. Everything beyond that point is a long, beautiful tail, red gradually bleeding into gold at the very tips of his fins, which are near-translucent and move with the fluidity of smoke in the water. If it weren’t for his inability to travel across land, he would almost admire his transformation. It was the stuff of legends along the coastline.

“…I thought your people lived in the ocean,” the man murmurs, eyes glued to Barry’s caudal fin as he flicks it languorously upward, gently breaking the surface of the water.

“Only merfolk live in the ocean.”

His visitor snorts in amusement. “Boy, do I ever have news for you…”

“What I mean,” Barry sighs, waving his hand down the length of his body, “is that I wasn’t born this way.”

“Then in what way were you born?”

“With legs,” he explains. “I’ve been cursed by King Zolomon. Until I swear allegiance to him, I’m nothing more than a prisoner in this lake.”

Finally, the stranger tears his gaze away from the tail and fixes his silvery blue eyes on Barry. The corner of his lip crooks into something of a grimace, as though he’s weighing the truth of that statement. “The merfolk are notorious for luring wayward travelers to their death,” he finally says, “And your story is a rather remarkable one. Why would Zolomon need an oath from a child?”

“I’m not a child,” Barry snaps. In fact, he just turned twenty this spring. It was the first birthday he ever spent away from home, actually. That had been a particularly hard day to get through. “My name is Bartholomew. My father is King Henry of the House of Allen. I think you can probably guess where I’m going with this…”

Something like recognition flashes across the stranger’s eyes. He weighs Barry a moment longer with his steely gaze and then says, “Alright…you’re the missing prince. I take it you need a hand getting out of here?”

“I can’t leave the lake,” he says, heart sinking with the reminder of what happened the first time he tried that. He was only able to drag himself twenty or so feet into the forest before he passed out. He woke hours later after Eobard dropped him back into the water, gloating over Barry’s helplessness.

The stranger’s eyes flicker back to Barry’s tail, connecting the dots. “The nearest body of water is a river almost half a day’s trek to the south. It would take a team of people to get you there and then further on to the palace. I imagine if someone were to send a message to your father ahead of time, that would get the ball rolling in the right direction…”

“That someone could be you,” Barry says quietly. He can tell the stranger is still trying to get a feel for his story, attempting to sniff out the ruse. Barry can’t blame him. Of the few people who’ve already stumbled upon the lake, most of them were leery of his true intentions. “Do you have a name, stranger?”

The man eyes him again, head cocked to one side curiously. His faint smile suggests he’s intrigued enough to humor Barry. “You can call me Len.”

“Just Len?”

“My father’s name is hardly worth mentioning. ‘Len’ will do just fine.”

Barry isn’t about to push his luck. Something is better than nothing, after all. “Well, ‘Len’…can I rely on you to inform my father of my whereabouts?”

“If it’s true Zolomon is the one keeping you here, playing messenger doesn’t sound like the safest vocation…” Len muses, resuming his work on his blade. He’s still smirking though, which means this conversation isn’t over just yet.

Honestly, Barry’s not surprised. ‘Len’ wouldn’t be the first person to ask for compensation for trying to help him out of his predicament.

Slowly, Barry swims closer to the dock, hauling himself up and out of the water just enough so that he can cross his arms on the warm wood. Len’s gaze briefly flickers to the rusted dagger in his right hand, but otherwise ignores the weapon. “What if I offered you a reward?”

The smooth _snick_ of stone against iron continues as Len sharpens his blade, but he glances up at Barry briefly, clearly interested. “Let’s say that you, as a prince, _could_ offer me a reward…what’s the most you could personally guarantee a person for their services?”

Oddly enough, Len isn’t the first person to ask this question. “My kingdom,” he replies, “but only through marriage.”

For some reason, his response gives Len pause. The man frowns down at his blade in concentration. After a moment, he says, “You’re quite serious about this whole prisoner business…”

“I have no reason to lie,” he says, despite how cliché that sounds. He’s so desperate for his liberty, he really would offer up his hand in marriage to obtain it. “If I was just a run-of-the-mill merman, I would’ve drowned you by now.”

And with that, he falls back into the water, twisted under the surface before popping back up a few feet away. When he turns to look at Len again, he can see that the man is sitting very still, brow still furrowed, watching him carefully.

“I know you’re not a threat, kid,” Len sighs. He drops his whet stone down beside him to wipe a bit of perspiration from the back of his neck. Despite his ability to wander freely during the day, the sunlight still seems to bother him. “If I help you, I want an audience with the sorcerers in your father’s council. I’ve heard they’re the best on the continent, even since before this whole Zolomon debacle.”

Barry blinks at him curiously. “That’s it? Why?”

“Because that’s what I’m asking for.”

Barry huffs out a small laugh. “Alright…if it’s an audience you want, then it’s an audience you’ll get. Nothing more and nothing less. Do we have an agreement?”

Len lifts his sword for inspection. Sunlight dances off the blade, a lovely straight-edged falchion, the kind Barry would _love_ to wedge between Eobard’s ribs.

“Consider it a deal,” Len finally replies, climbing to his feet. He slips the short sword back into its scabbard at his hip and glances up at the clear blue sky, hand shading his eyes, squinting. “It won’t take me long to find someone. I should return sometime in the next two to three days.”

“Don’t come back,” Barry quickly interjects, frightened. He doesn’t know how Len’s managed to survive this long in the forest, given Eobard’s track record, but his luck is bound to run out sooner or later. “Not alone, anyway. It’s not safe.”

Len’s squint shifts to Barry, as though he’s vaguely insulted by his concern. “I’m touched, really, but I’m a big boy. I think I can look after myself.”

Barry shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

Even if it really is.

Sensing his discomfort, Len lowers his arm and says, “Spit it out, Scarlet. What’s got you spooked?”

“I’m not spooked,” Barry mutters, which is a lie. “It’s just…don’t you know who lurks in this forest?”

“Other than you?” Len quips, the corner of his mouth twitching into a lazy smile. “Eobard Thawne, supposedly. Did Zolomon install him as your warden?”

Barry blinks, surprised that Len would brave the forest despite knowing whose hunting ground this was. Then again, Len _is_ a sidhe. He might be powerful in his own right. “Well, yeah, actually. He’s been parading in the body of Harrison Wells, my old mentor. He’s killed just about everyone who wanders into the forest.”

“What about the people he hasn’t killed?”

Again, Barry shrugs. “A few have just…disappeared. I’m guessing they died in some way unrelated to Eobard or his traps, otherwise my rescue team would’ve arrived by now.”

Len hums a soft note, as if he finds that peculiar. Then he says, “He’ll never know I was here. I be back. You can bet on it.”

“If you say so,” Barry murmurs, trying to squash the sense of hope rising in his chest before it can get to his head again. He’s been disappointed enough times by now to know better. Even so, he finds himself entertaining the thought of his father standing at the palace gates, weak with age and relief, uplifted by the return of his long lost child.

“Until then,” Len says by way of farewell, nodding once at Barry before wandering down the dock toward the beach. Barry watches Len go until he disappears into the forest and the small sounds of nature creep back into his ears. Then he ducks back below the surface of the water and makes his way to the centre of the lake, mindful of the fact that the moon is full and he will be receiving a visitor of the worst sort just as soon as the sun sets.

And like clockwork, the minute the warm sunset hues of the sky bleed into darkness, he can feel something hooking itself around his spine and tugging him back to the dock. He could resist the unspoken order, of course, but it would be a painful ordeal, one he has no interest in repeating. So he stretches out from the ball he curled himself into on the bottom of the lake earlier that afternoon and returns to the shore, peeking his head cautiously above the surface of the water, hoping against all hope that he won’t find Len’s mangled body on the beach.

Fortunately, he doesn’t; _unfortunately_ , Eobard is standing there, a long coat folded over one arm as he waits for Barry to approach.

“Did you miss me?” the sidhe chuckles, as amused as ever with the look of disdain on Barry’s face. Like always, he reaches into his pocket for a crumpled red flower and tosses it out onto the water. Barry grabs it as it drifts past his nose, tossing his dagger at Eobard’s feet in return, as per their agreement. “Come now. There’s no use delaying the inevitable.”

The ‘ _inevitable_ ’ was this horrid monthly ritual Barry was subjected to in order to retain his ability to one day become human again. Apparently, Zolomon’s curses weren’t entirely without flaw, and so remaining as a merman for more than thirty days at a time would result in a permanent transformation. If that happened, Barry would never leave the lake and Zolomon would no longer have a bargaining chip, a little stitch in the plan for both of them.

The flower only returns him to his human form for a quarter of an hour before its effect begins to wear off, at which point he must crawl back into the water like the pitiful creature he’s become. Tonight, his story is no different. He plucks the long petals off the rosy blossom and pops them into his mouth. As soon as he’s chewed and swallowed them, he can feel the transformation begin.

He reaches over to grab hold of one of the dock’s pillars as the first spasm hits him. It starts low in his gut and radiates down the length of his tail. Then again, and yet again, each passing cramp more painful than the last, until he feels his tail tearing straight down the middle, accompanied by a warm swelling sensation where his human joints should be.

In just a few minutes, the transformation is complete, although his legs are too weak to be of much use to him. He has to rely on the dock to get to the shore, pulling himself there slowly. Once he’s close enough to stumble out of the water, Eobard leans down to grab the dagger gingerly by the hilt, leaving the long coat in its place. Then the sidhe turns away and retreats to the cold campsite, affording Barry his privacy as he drags himself naked onto the beach.

Sitting up on the sand, the water still lapping at his legs, Barry slips his arms through the coat and pulls it closed around his shuddering form. His lower body aches from the rapid change, but already the pain is beginning to pass. He stares down at his toes and wiggles them feebly, feeling a different sort of ache in his chest.

Before too long, they’ll be gone again.

Having given Barry enough time to make himself decent, Eobard returns to the beach. He stands just behind Barry, staring down out across the lake. With no small amount of dark amusement, he asks, “How are we feeling today?”

Heartsick, Barry focuses his gaze on the moon’s reflection on the surface of the water, a perfect pale orb surrounded by a blanket of stars. He says nothing.

“Your father is still alive,” Eobard continues, trying to coax a response out of him, “but his days are numbered. Soon he’ll die, and in your absence, the throne will pass on to the West family. Then I’ll be forced to drag Lady West down here…But she’s a smart girl. I’m sure she’ll take King Zolomon up on his offer.”

“You don’t know Iris,” Barry finally says. He hates the way he feels weak for letting Eobard goad him into conversing with him, but it’s painful to think of anyone languishing the way he is, thrust unceremoniously into a cold and unfamiliar rhythm of existence.

“I happen to like Iris,” Eobard muses aloud, moving to stand beside Barry now, staring down at him. “And I happen to like you, despite myself. As does the King. In fact, he’s _very_ impressed with your fortitude.”

Barry couldn’t care less what Zolomon thought of him. Even if the king hadn’t put him in this position, Barry strongly suspects Zolomon had something to do with his mother’s untimely passing. She barely survived to the end of the week following his little display at the border, stolen away from Barry when he was still too young to understand the significance behind her agony. He wasn’t even allowed to see her in her final hours for the fear she had been inflicted with something contagious.

He firmly believes Zolomon has been the sole root of his suffering for years now.

“Perseverance in the face of adversity is an admirable quality in a king,” Eobard continues, undeterred by his silence. “He’s more than happy to let you ascend the throne when your time comes. All you need to do is swear your allegiance to him and accept him as your Emperor. It’s a small thing, really. He’s more than happy to let your kingdom prosper.”

“If he’s so impressed, I wonder why he never comes here to tell me that himself.” Barry finally tears his eyes away from the moon’s reflection to glare up at Eobard instead. With mock concern, he says, “I hope he isn’t dying.”

That, at least, has an effect on Eobard. The man reaches down and curls his fist around the material of Barry’s coat, hauling him up into the air by the collar as if he were a doll. Barry clings to the man’s arm in shock, his legs dangling uselessly beneath him. He knows the sidhe is prone to lashing out when angered, but the sheer strength of the sidhe still surprises him.

“You shouldn’t wish him ill,” Eobard reminds him hotly, “because unless you expect to find your soulmate at the bottom of this lake someday, he’s your only ticket out of here.”

It takes a moment for Barry to regain his composure, but he can feel the vice of hatred once again tightening around his heart. “If he dies knowing what an utter failure his campaign turned out to be, I would _happily_ spend an eternity in this hellhole.”

Scowling, Eobard throws him back onto the ground. Barry hits the sand heavily on his back, which knocks the breath out of him.

“You know, your father still mourns for you,” Eobard mutters as he straightens out his cloak. “I can hear him wailing in the night. At this rate, I think his grief will kill him before anything else does.”

Tears prick at the corner of his eyes, but Barry holds the sidhe’s dark gaze unblinking. He knows his sudden disappearance is part of what is killing his father, but he also knows his father would be proud of him if he knew what Barry was sacrificing for his kingdom.

Still incensed with the boy’s blatant refusal to surrender, Eobard reaches into his pocket for Barry’s dagger and hurtles it far out over the water, into the nearest thicket of trees. Barry can hear it ricocheting off a trunk before disappearing into the darkness. His heart sinks as he realizes how long it’s going to take him to find it again.

“You’re smarter than this,” Eobard mutters before turning toward the forest, shaking his head in disappointment as he disappears into the foliage.

As soon as he’s out of sight, Barry’s tears finally spill over. He covers his mouth with one hand to catch his sob, thinking of his poor father, grey with worry and age. It’s getting harder to hold himself together after these little visits. He’s not as strong as he wants to be anymore. He’s just so tired and afraid.

He just wants to go home already.

Barry sits there on the beach for the short while that the flower’s influence lasts, crying openly into the cold night air until the spasming pain returns in his legs and abdomen.

Then he slips off his coat and lets the water take him under.

~***~

Cisco could feel it the moment he passed through the barrier.

He’d left it behind himself about half an hour ago, but the oily sensation still clings to him. Even the air out here feels greasy against his mouth, but he knows he can only sense the disquietude of the world through his unique powers. It’s discord cranked to the max, vibrating in every bone, pinching the very nerves in his teeth. He’s sorely tempted to turn back, but he soldiers onward, making his way steadily across the hilly field to the Apagorev Forest where the sidhe woman was last spotted. She would occasionally travel south into a little village called Sorens to drink liquor and trade information with travellers.

Since Soren was technically at the northern tip of Henry’s kingdom, Cisco knew the woman wasn’t a member of Zolomon’s army. Neither the dark king nor anyone who served him could cross the border, so she, of anyone, should have trustworthy information concerning the comings and goings of her people.

Supposedly, anyway.

All the same, Cisco is beginning to reconsider the wisdom of his plan as a crow suddenly caws at him from its perch atop a boulder beside the road. He nearly jumps out of his skin. Cisco knows a trick or two about defending himself, of course, but he was hardly the fighting type. He’s more of a lover, really, although he doesn’t have much experience in that department either.

“Stupid bird,” Cisco mutters as he rounds one hill and finally comes into view of the Apagorev forest. The dirt road underfoot splits up ahead, the route on the right winding around another hill while the path to his left veers sharply into the dark forest. But he keeps his distance for the moment. He can feel a new vibration now rattling around inside his skull.

He kind of feels like his head is going to explode.

It doesn’t explode, but he does. Figuratively, anyway. What _really_ happens is a hand lands heavily on his shoulder and he screams loud enough to scare the bejesus out of the crow. It shoots off the boulder like it’s got the devil on its tail, disappearing into the starry night sky in a mad scramble as Cisco twirls around to face his unexpected companion.

He just about faints in relief when he sees who it is.

“Man, I don’t even care who ratted me out,” Cisco sighs, pressing a hand against his chest as he wills his racing heart to settle, “I’m so glad it’s you.”

“Uh-huh,” Harry murmurs absently, looking between Cisco and the forest, squinting the way he usually does whenever he’s doing some kind of mysterious mental calculation.

“But, like, how did you even know how to find me?” he laughs. He’s knows Harry’s signature and he hasn’t felt it since he left the palace. There’s no way the man was tailing him. “I mean, assuming you actually came here for me and not for some other reason.”

Harry’s gaze flickers back to Cisco. He looks tired. Sad almost. Curiously, he says, “Seven paces.”

Cisco blinks in confusion. “Are…you alright? Is something wrong?”

“I’m sad to say there is,” Harry sighs, dropping his hand from Cisco’s shoulder. He reaches around to the hip scabbard under his clock and unsheathes his dagger. Cisco has never seen him use it before. He’s quite surprised to see and obsidian blade in lieu of steel. It looks something the sidhe would’ve made.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, face pinched with something approaching grief.

“For what?” Cisco asks, just as Harry slips the blade smoothly beneath his ribs.

Cisco feels cold at first, brain slow on the uptake as Harry takes a step forward and wraps his other arm around him, pulling him in close to his chest, as if embracing him. “You were seven paces from salvation,” Harry breathes against the side of his head, voice choked, like this is somehow hurting him too. “I’m so sorry, Cisco.”

He still has no idea what that whole ‘seven paces’ business is all about, but nothing much seems to matter anymore as every vibration in his body narrows down to the point in his body parting around the blade. There’s a screaming pain behind his eyes and a hot weight in his gut trying to claw its way up the back of his throat. He soon realizes that’s actually blood.

Harry steps away suddenly, taking his dagger with him. He looks anguished, as if he’s the one who’s been murdered here. Then he turns away, and, with a crack of light so cruel and bright, he seemingly dissolve into the aethers.

 _‘Why?’_ Cisco tries to say, feeling small and afraid as he collapses to his knees. He presses his hands against his stomach to stop the flow of blood, but every muscle in his gut seizes up, pulling a strangled cry from between his lips as he tips further down onto his back.

_Why?_

Shock begins to set in as he stares up at the swollen moon and its starry halo. He wonders if Harry was the one to do away with Barry, if he stole the prince from the world the same way, leaving the boy to feel alone and betrayed, wishing he could see his loved ones just one last time…

Somewhere in the hazy state between life and death, a shadow passes over Cisco—a remarkably human-shaped shadow who leans down to grab his right ankle. Cisco jerks his leg in surprise, but already the figure is pulling him toward the forest. There’s a sharp twinge of pain in his stomach as he’s dragged over a loose stone.

And then, finally, he slips blessedly into the void.

~***~

He’s seen Bartholomew before.

Not formally, of course. Not consciously on Barry’s part either. Len was down in the capital city years ago during the spring festival. While people were gathered just outside the palace gates, practically falling over themselves to catch a glimpse of the royal family, Len was picking pockets. More for practice than anything, slipping golden rings off plump fingers and cutting coin purses off rotund aristocratic belts while making a mental map of the palace wall and the number of men stationed around its perimeter. For quite some time, he’d been entertaining the idea of stealing the crown jewels, but then his father took a sudden interest in his life again and Len spent more time on the run than he would’ve preferred. All the same, he did get to see Scarlet that day, sitting astride his white mare, smiling benignly at his people. It was his birthday and he was finally a man. A good man, given what the rumors said about him. And a pretty one at that.

Len didn’t feel too bad taking a moment to steal a prolonged glance of his own knowing the boy was finally of the legal age to be receiving such lingering looks.

He only didn’t recognize the prince during their first encounter at the lake because Scarlet was soaking wet and kept to the shade, but seeing him up close a second time finally hammered home the fact that he _knew_ this kid. It didn’t immediately make much sense to see the prince wallowing in the water with a fish tail instead of legs almost a year after his apparent death, although it didn’t take much past that initial shock to convince Len of the truth of the boy’s identity once he brought Zolomon and Eobard into the equation. Torturing people in new and unusual ways was supposedly right up their alley. And with King Henry on his deathbed, Barry’s spirit was logistically the one they needed to crush in order to overthrow his kingdom.

As such, Len knows the boy is good for his word. If Len can get a message to the king about his son’s whereabouts, he can get the advice he needs on how to prevent Leuis’ minions from ever finding him again. Then he can return to life as he knows it, unfettered to the tainted side of his bloodline.

And as far as unusual tasks go, this one should be smooth sailing. Len’s already been wandering through the forest for the last few days, keeping to the shadows whenever he feels a presence close at hand. It takes a considerable amount of focus to sense danger and skirt around it, but before too long he can see the field beyond the forest and its rolling hills. Just a few miles south is Henry’s kingdom. Once he crosses the border, there won’t be anything to stop him from reaching the palace.

Theoretically, this should be one of the easiest deals he’s ever struck.

Of course, he realizes he’s probably speaking too soon when he smells it, the hot coppery tang of fresh blood. He can see dark splotches of it on the narrow dirt path ahead before the trail careens madly into the underbrush. Hopefully, it’s just a wounded animal that’s been dragged off by a much larger predator, but Len pauses for a moment to listen, just in case Amaya and her soldiers brazenly decided to follow him in here.

He hears nothing, but his senses are still on high alert as he creeps toward the mouth of the forest, careful not to step in the blood. He follows the trail out of the forest proper and toward the main road that winds around a steep hill. It wasn’t an animal, it seems, given by the small, red pocket book lying in the grass beside the apparent scene of the crime. Thankfully, it’s clean, so he couches down to pick it up and flips it open.

Though literate, Len has no hope of reading the chicken scratch squeezed onto every page. The pictures, on the other hand, are perfect, a series of coloured sketches of plants and stones, many of which Len has never seen before. A herbalist must have been passing through, possibly to document the strange flora of the forest. It’s a shame they didn’t even make it that far.

Len pockets the notebook and rises to his full height, glancing around himself for signs of Captain Amaya or her soldiers. He needs to move quickly if he doesn’t want them to catch wind of where he’s going.

Satisfied by his apparent solitude, Len pivots sharply on his heel and marches back into the forest.

He’s side-stepping the last of the blood trail, eyeing the way its trajectory veers madly into the bushes when he stops dead in his tracks and wonders what the hell he’s doing. Embarrassed by his own absent-minded behavior, Len sighs, pivots back around, and exits the forest again.

He makes it all of seven paces before he forgets what he was doing. He needs…he needs to hide from Amaya. Needs to lie low, just for a week or two. Then business can resume as usual.

The second time he re-enters the forest, he begins to realize what’s really going on here. If he had to guess, Eobard probably erected a barrier of his own around the forest to prevent the spread of information concerning the prince’s whereabouts should someone, such as Len, find a way to avoid his traps.

This was going to be a major problem.

Frustrated, Len crosses his arms and leans back against the nearest tree trunk. All sidhe magic had a loophole, just as all barriers had their limitations. He just needed to find it, the loophole or the limitation…

Rather belatedly, he remembers the notebook in his pocket. He pulls it out hastily and flips to the back, tearing out one of the few blank pages remaining. Then he breaks a small twig off the nearest branch and crouches down to wet the tip in the mud. A twig doesn’t make for the most manageable writing utensil, but he’s still able to scribble out a halfway decent _‘Prince Bart in forest’_ with it. Then, note in hand, he boldly leaves the forest for the third and final time.

He makes it about as far as he did the last time before confusion hits him in a wave. He has the foggy sense of re-emerging from the forest a number of times with the disconcerting sensation of not remembering what happened in between. However, the most confusing part of this whole affair is the ash clinging to his hand. He brushes it off against the front of his coat irritably before he turns back around and returns to the forest.

As his memories slot back into place, Len’s stomach plummets to the soles of his feet. He’s never encountered an enchantment quite like this before. Of course, he could try leaving the forest at another point, but Eobard had a reputation for his craft, and Len was willing to bet the small fortune he’s been accumulating over the years that this barrier extends the whole perimeter of the forest. That would explain why some of the prince’s unexpected visitors disappeared indefinitely. Chances were, they left the forest, forgot they had ever met the prince, and went on their merry way.

Normally, Len enjoys a challenge, but this is something above and beyond what he’s used to, mostly because it’s neither his life nor his freedom that’s on the line here. Prince Bartholomew’s fate is hanging in the balance. This is the point where Len should forget the kid and move on. In fact, he shouldn’t have gotten himself involved in this kid’s problem in the first place. Eobard Thawne would kill him in a heartbeat if he ever caught on to Len’s involvement…

Even so…it would be awfully nice to collect a bit of magical muscle to help him with Leuis. And in any case, he needs to lie low long enough for Amaya to lose his scent, so he won’t be at a loss if he continues to brainstorm solutions to Scarlet’s predicament in his downtime. After all, he might simply be approaching this problem the wrong way. He shouldn’t throw in his towel prematurely.

Still irritated by the turn of events, Len begins his trek back to the lake.

By the time he arrives, it’s only a little after dawn the following day. There’s a white mist slowly dissipating above the water and a solemn silence all around him, a sign that the world is still in stasis, not wholly roused by the rising sun. He would almost find the scenery peaceful if not for the dark coat discarded on the beach and the wet footprints leading to and from it.

It would appear the prince had another visitor.

Len doesn’t sense anything untowardly at the moment, but he takes a minute to scan the surrounding forest before he collects a few stones off the ground and walks to the very end of the dock. Then he hurtles a stone out toward the water, satisfied with the angry _‘plop!’_ it makes as it disappears into the darkness.

He chucks another one, then another, only giving pause when he runs out of stones. Then he heads back to shore, collecting a few more, hoping he’ll get his message across this time as he chucks another fat one out into the water.

Before too long, Scarlet pops his head out of the water inches away from where Len slung his last rock. Irritably, he huffs, “Do you mind?”

“We have a problem,” Len says by way of greeting.

The prince’s head disappears below the surface again before he re-emerges beside the dock. He looks pale and tired, like he hadn’t gotten any sleep at all. Warily, he asks, “What kind of problem?”

“There’s a barrier around the Apagorev,” he sighs, “The second you set foot outside the forest, you forget everything you learned on the inside.”

The prince’s face slackens with surprise. He reaches up to brace a hand against the dock, drumming his fingers against the wood in thought. “Can you read and write? Maybe we could—”

“Tried it already. The note turned to ash as soon as I crossed the barrier.”

Bartholomew’s hand slips off the dock and back into the water. He stares into the forest silently.

Len knows that look. When all hope seems bleak, it’s tempting to retreat into the back of your mind and wish your circumstances were better.

He snaps his fingers to get the kid’s attention again. “This isn’t the end,” he says, not entirely sure how he’s supposed to console the boy. He doesn’t have much experience comforting other people. “I can figure something out.”

The prince shakes his head, eyes downcast. “You should leave while you still can. It really isn’t safe for you here.”

“If I was interested in your advice, I would’ve taken it the first time,” he mutters, rubbing his hands together, thinking. “Relax. We haven’t explored all of our options yet.”

“What other options _are_ there, exactly?”

“Just give me a second here, kid. Panicking isn’t going to help us.”

Len’s gotten himself out of some fairly sticky situations in the past. Granted, nothing could’ve prepared him for an experience quite like this, but he’s learned one rule throughout his many trials and tribulations and it still holds true: the only way to deal with sidhe magic is more sidhe magic.

And who better to deal with sidhe magic than a sidhe?

He just so happens to know the person for the job.

“I have an acquaintance who might be able to help us,” he announces, although it’ll be a long shot getting a hold of her. They each have their own lives and their own problems. She might be too busy to respond.

Bartholomew finally glances up at him again, although he still doesn’t look too hopeful. “Not to sound like a pessimist, but how do you expect to recruit anyone to our cause if you can’t remember why you’re recruiting them as soon as you leave the forest?”

“Because I don’t need to leave to recruit them.”

 _This_ , at least, seems to pique the boy’s interest. He narrows his eyes curiously and says, “Are you talking about summoning another sidhe? Someone more powerful than yourself?”

“Preciously. Although there’s no guarantee on how soon she’ll show up. It could take days. Weeks. It all depends on her schedule.”

“I’m kind of desperate for help at the moment,” the kid quips, smirking. “So, yes, please summon her. I do have to wonder what the cost of her assistance will be though. After all, nothing comes for free from your kind…”

The prince is right about that, but thankfully Len already has that covered. “Let’s just say she owes me one.”

Bartholomew squints inquisitively at him again, and Len finds himself getting marginally annoyed by how good the kid looks making such a face, because they’re supposed to be having a serious conversation here and yet he’s beginning to feel a little hot under the collar at the most inopportune moment from something as simple as Scarlet’s stare.

“What?” Len barks, louder than he would’ve preferred.

Fortunately, he doesn’t startle the kid, who merely shrugs at his minor outburst. “Nothing. I was just trying to figure out why you would be willing to cash in on a favor from a sidhe for me. They’re a hot commodity. You must _really_ need the help from my father’s council.”

Len huffs out a small laugh under his breath, covering up the fact that he _is_ rather desperate for said help. “If she lends me a hand now, it won’t even begin to cover the debt she owes me.”

“What exactly does she owe you for?”

“That’s not important.”

The kid continues smirking at him, like he knows there’s is absolutely an interesting story behind this supposed debt. He’s right, but Len would rather not dwell on it. The circumstances leading up to the vow he made her in exchange for her help were rather dismal.

“I need to set up a summoning circle,” Len says, finding an excuse to retreat into the wood. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Be careful,” the kid reminds him, voice light with humor.

Len doesn’t feel at all ashamed by the sudden urge to spare Bartholomew one last backward glance, to catch a glimpse of that warm and beatific smile he first saw years ago when the prince was happy and free.

With any luck, the kid will have a genuine reason to be happy again soon.

Len shakes his head to clear it as he passes back into the wood, veering off the beaten track to find something halfway resembling a clearing. It takes him almost an hour to find somewhere far from Eobard’s conventional traps, at which point he breaks a dry branch off the nearest tree and uses it to draw a circle in the dirt. It’s nothing spectacular, just an unbroken, if a bit wobbly around the edges sphere roughly one foot in diameter. He spells out her name in sidhe tongue in the centre of the circle and then tosses the branch aside to draw his falchion.

Cradling the blade loosely in the palm of his left hand, he takes a deep breath and then draw the blade against his skin. Then he extends his hand over the circle and squeezes it into a fist. Blood platters across Lise’s birthname, and yet the dirt remains undisturbed.

Sooner or later, his sister will catch wind of her summons.

~***~

He wakes in a hazy state somewhere between Here and There, only consciously aware of one rhythm in the universe. It dances at a steady beat, slow as the heart in slumber and just as deep. It pulls him from the plane of non-existence into a world of subtle aches and pains and softly glowing lights. He’d love nothing more than to just lie there for an eternity, warm and sore and heavy…

But he’s woken by a voice.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, too, rocking him gently but insistently. It takes herculean effort to crack his eyes open and investigate the body that the hand belongs to. Even then, he can’t help but wonder if he’s dreaming. There’s no way in hell a woman as beautiful as this can actually exist.

The woman in question smiles at him, tucking a long, dark lock of hair behind her ear. Her golden irises reflect the low light in a peculiar way. With a laugh like music, she says, “You find me beautiful, do you?”

“Did…did I really just say that out loud?” Cisco croaks, swallowing painfully past the dry lump in his throat. He’s beginning to feel less like he found the seat of euphoria and more like he’s recovering from a particularly bad fever. Which, to be honest, he probably is.

“Here,” she says, slipping a hand under his head as she presses a bowl of water against his lips. With some difficulty, she helps him drink, patiently holding his head up until he’s had his fill. Then she returns the bowl to her side on the ground and smiles again. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I could use a hundred year nap,” he groans, trying to sit upright. He’s stopped almost immediately both by the hand against his chest and the sudden tremor of agony in his gut, right where Harry buried his dagger. Cisco lies back slowly, faint with disbelief, “I can’t…I can’t believe Harry would try to kill me like that…”

The woman cocks her head curiously at him. “Who? The man who stabbed you was Eobard Thawne. He’s wearing someone else’s skin.”

Cisco blinks in surprise. He feels like his head is spinning all of a sudden. “Wait— _what_?”

“Eobard Thawne?” she repeats, searching his face for any sign of recognition. “Servant of King Zolomon? …Have you really never heard of him?”

“I’ve _heard_ of him, sure, but I sure as hell didn’t know he could steal a person’s skin. Does this mean Harrison Wells _dead_?”

“Eobard is a man of many tricks,” she replies, touching the base of her throat. “He keeps the owner in his medallion. I believe he needed to borrow a sorcerer’s body to pass the border into your kingdom and to utilize his powers while he’s over there.”

Surprised, Cisco tries to sit up again. However, this time the pain alone is enough flatten on his back again on the bed of dry leaves.

“Stop that,” she admonishes. “Your wound needs to heal. There’s plenty I can do for you, but raising someone from the dead is beyond my abilities at the moment.”

“You don’t understand—I _need_ to warn someone. This is big. God, this is _so_ big. If Eobard’s been with us all this time, we need to—”

“No,” she says, with a sense of decisiveness that it gives Cisco pause.

“I…pardon me?”

“I said no,” she says, just as sternly. After a moment of horrified silence on his part, she sighs. “It’s complicated, alright? I indirectly owe him a favor or two for services already rendered, and _you_ owe me for saving your life. So just sit tight and relax. Eobard Thawne is no longer your problem.”

“No longer my problem?” Cisco asks incredulously. “He tried to kill me! What’s more, I’m _convinced_ he was behind the prince’s disappearance.”

“Calm. Down,” she grits out, head cocked to one side and eyebrows raised, as if daring him to defy her.

Meekly, Cisco gently shifts his position on his makeshift bed and glances past her at the wall of vines beyond They’re in some kind of spacious sphere gently lit by little white blossoms. It’s warm in here. And quiet.

“Where are we?” he asks, figuring he should probably change gears before she loses her patience with him. He can pester her on the issues she clearly doesn’t want to address once he’s well enough to run again.

“The Apagorev Forest,” she explains, glancing up at their faux cocoon. “So long as you remain here, no one will be able to sense you. I think it’s in your best interest that you lie low until you’re well enough to flee.”

He smiles weakly, wondering if she can read minds. “I don’t disagree with you, but why exactly are you helping me? Not that I’m ungrateful or anything, it’s just…sidhe aren’t all that generous, if the old wives tales are to be believed.”

“All stories are made up of a little of Truth and a little of Lie,” she chuckles, stretching out beside him on the bed of leaves, head tucked into the crook of her arm. She’s clothed in dark green robes, her feet bare, her skin a warm, sun-kissed hue. “We’re not usually generous as a rule, least of all to each other. For all the centuries that Leuis has been our king, he’s really only succeeded in doing one thing and that’s breeding a sense of unease among our people. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be convinced to act on the behalf of someone else before a deal is struck. I intervened for your sake simply because I couldn’t let a pretty face go to waste. Besides, I could tell it pained Eobard to do away with you. Fate, it appears, doesn’t want you to die just yet.”

“Then I guess Eobard shouldn’t have tried to ‘do away’ with me,” he mutters, although he feels like he’s blushing a little from her compliment. He was admittedly vain about his hair, but he was hardly in one spot long enough to notice any lingering looks from the ladies, least of all from someone as stunning as her.

“He’s not all bad,” she laughs, as if she thinks he’s being childish. “He was one of the few nobles who tried overthrow the king and introduce a republic to the sidhe. When they failed, Eobard was forced to flee to avoid execution. That’s why he’s thrown himself in with Zolomon’s lot.”

“Sounds to me like he’s trying to replace one evil king with another. That isn’t exactly how a republic is made.”

“Revenge is revenge. When you want it, you seize whatever opportunities present themselves.”

“That’s a horrible philosophy.”

“To each his own,” she sighs, suddenly half rolling over onto her back, craning her head over her shoulder. She falls silent and so does he, wondering if perhaps her little sphere isn’t as secure as advertised

After a long and uneasy moment, Cisco whispers, “What is it?”

“Just an old friend,” she replies, finally rolling over to face him again. “Fear not, no one will find you while you’re under my protection.”

“Do you need to leave?”

“He can wait,” she says, reaching over to brush one of his dark locks from his eyes. He feels like she’s trying to deflect further inquiry into the matter, but he decides not to press her for more information yet, mostly because her fingers feel delightfully cool against his feverish face. “What should I call you?” she asks quietly.

“My name is Francisco Ramon,” he replies, “but my friends call me ‘Cisco’.”

“I’ve never heard a name like that before. It rolls off the tongue quite nicely. May I call you Cisco?”

“If you consider yourself a friend,” he quips, smiling softly. “And if you _are_ a friend, you might also consider telling me what I should call you.”

He loves the way her smile reaches her golden eyes, the way the light dances in them like starlight. “My name is Lisamarie,” she says, “but to those closest to me I go by ‘Lise’.”

“Now there’s a name that rolls off the tongue.”

“Flatterer,” she mumbles fondly. “Go to sleep. I’ve numbed your pain, but you still have a long way to go before you recuperate. I’ll find you something to eat while you rest.”

He _is_ feeling fairly fatigued, but he’s hesitant to close his eyes. There’s a part of him that worries this is all just a dream, some feverish hallucination brought to him in the hour of his death. He could be standing at the gates of hades for all he knows. She might be an angel.

“Rest,” she urges him, stroking a hand through his hair. “I vow no harm will come to you while you sleep. You have my word as a sidhe.”

“I don’t know how I’m ever going to repay you,” he says as he closes his eyes, succumbing to the sweet pull at the back of his mind. He feels like he’s floating.

“What are friends for,” she sighs, voice fading into the distance as he surrenders to the void.

~***~

In a quiet corner of the forest where she’s long-since cleared the hemlock and the white baneberry from the little clearing, Lisamarie tends to her garden. 

She grows all manner of things, fruits, flowers, and shrubs, some she planted for sustenance and others she planted for pleasure. It’s the gift she inherited from her mother, a summer fae, so in tune with nature that it has become an extension of herself. It moves at her command and bestows her with its raw gifts. She can poison a man with a kiss just as easily as she can pull the toxin from his veins with her fingertips.

She can grant him life just as easily as she can take it.

As powerful as she is in her own right, in no way does she take after her father, not only in the nature of her abilities but also the speed with which she can deliver retribution to an assailant and the level of cruelty with which he opines she should deliver it. Lise is not a combative person. Never will be. Therefore, even as the only full-blooded sidhe of his legacy, she knows he is disappointed to have her as his heir.

Honestly, she could care less what he thinks of her, except what he thinks of her very much effects the likelihood of her surviving from one day to the next. In fact, she wouldn’t be hiding in the Apagorev Forest right now if it hadn’t been for his cold and callous temperament. After one disagreement too many, she had no choice but to flee to the world above, always wary of the fact that she could be turned over to her father’s soldiers at any given moment.

From where she’s kneeling in her garden, plucking lettuce leaves for a meal, she senses a presence behind her. Not a malevolent one, so she finishes setting the leaves aside in the basket she wove from dried vines and stands, brushing the dirt off her hands before she turns to face her guest.

“Good evening, Eobard,” she says.

He hasn’t worn his true face for over a year now, but she recognizes his aura nonetheless. He was a good friend of her mother when she was still alive. He also helped nurture her powers to what they are today.

She wouldn’t be as strong as she is if it hadn’t been for him.

And now, after all these years of exile, he’s still willing to offer her sanctuary.

“Good evening, Lise,” he replies softly. He’s always been soft with her, but she can hear the strain in his voice, the hint of grief he’s trying to hide. “You know, when I said you could hide in my forest, I didn’t exactly mean you should hide from me as well. I can hardly sense you half the time. I often worry that you’ve died.”

Skirting traps was something her brother taught her to do, a delightful trick which has saved her life more times than she can count. Arguable, she wouldn’t be as strong as she is today if it hadn’t been for him as well.

“If you can’t find me, you need only summon me,” she replies. “I’d come running. You know that.”

“I do,” he admits, wandering over to a fallen log, He settles down upon it and begins playing with the amulet around his throat, staring at the knot of silver and gold. “I was forced to kill a student today,” he says quietly. “My host was fond of him. I think I’d grown quite fond of him myself…”

“That’s…unfortunate,” she replies, uncertain of where Eobard is going with this or what she’s really supposed to say.

“But then a funny thing happened,” Eobard continues, relinquishing his grip on the medallion. He squints up at her curiously, as if contemplating a great mystery. “I wanted to honor him, so I tracked down a troop of Zolomon’s soldiers to build a burial pyre. However, when I returned for the body, it was gone. His blood led to nowhere.” A poignant pause here. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Lise can feel her heart fluttering in her throat.

She knows _a lot_ about that, actually, although she hardly understands her own motives behind saving the boy…

She lied to Cisco earlier when she told him her friend’s called her ‘Lise’. The truth is, she doesn’t have any friends. Growing up as the only full-blooded sidhe of her father’s offspring, most people wanted her dead to better pave their own way to the throne. It’s perhaps in almost everyone’s favor that she isn’t exactly the strongest heir Leuis could’ve hoped for, although certainly not for her. Knowing how truly weak she is, she knows her father is struggling to wrest her brother back under control, to better prepare Leonard for ascending the throne in her place before giving her the axe. In fact, it’s only a matter of time before Leuis succeed in replacing her with his supposed backup plan.

When she sensed Cisco approaching the forest, this warm presence so delighted to initially encounter Eobard in such a dismal place, it wasn’t hard to see herself in his place when his would-be mentor and friend gutted him on the spot. She felt his pain on a visceral level. His sudden betrayal was her own fears given life.

She saved him because he—because _they_ deserved better.

It is only because of her conviction in this matter that she’s able to look at Eobard with as heavy a heart as she has and say, “I’m sorry for your loss. Is there a reason you couldn’t add him to your amulet?”

Eobard stares at her for a long and uncomfortable moment before running a hand through his hair, eyes downcast, scowling in obvious frustration. “I can’t hold more than two prisoners in there at a time,” he sighs.

“Again, I’m truly sorry, Eobard…”

“I’m beginning to hate this place,” he mutters. “I feel as if someone has been running around behind my back these past few days, and yet my traps have turned up nothing. I would almost assume it’s you, except you openly vowed never to go near the lake.”

She did. In fact, it was Eobard’s only request for his help. She knows about the prince, of course, and really doesn’t condone what Eobard is doing with him, but the poor boy’s internment here is light in comparison to what Zolomon usually does with his enemies.

The kid has it easy considering what happened to the House of Wayne.

“Do you have any idea who it might be?” she asks, although she can already guess. She knows Len is in the forest. He used his own blood in her summoning circle.

“I know Captain Amaya is in the area,” Eobard replies, which sends a cold chill down her spine. She wonders if Amaya has found her already or if the Captain is only tracking her brother at the moment. Selfishly, she hopes it’s the latter. “She sent a small troop into the forest, but I disposed of them. I hope she takes my warning for what it is and leaves.”

“She’s a wise woman.”

“Speaking of wise women, have you given any consideration to Zolomon’s offer?”

Lise was hoping he wouldn’t touch upon the matter again so soon, but she can’t brush the issue off without looking ungrateful. Eobard is, after all, acting in her best interests. And to be fair, Zolomon’s offer is quite extraordinary.

All he wanted was her mother’s gift.

The Nemesis Kiss.

Anxiously, Lise turns away, crouching down to continue plucking lettuce leaves, stomach roiling with nerves. The Nemesis Kiss was a unique power passed from one generation to the next through her maternal line. It was a single-use trick but a potent one. It allowed her to bestow upon any one person the power to vanquish their greatest enemy. With it, Zolomon might no longer need to conquer the continent to get his hands on Leuis. The very laws of nature would bend as best they could around any vows he’d made in his lifetime to facilitate such a battle between them. Given Zolomon’s tenacity and Leuis’ dwindling health, there’s no question who would win that fight, although whether or not Zolomon would be able to successfully claim his throne in the aftermath is still unknown.

While Lise wouldn’t exactly bemoan the death of her father, this Zolomon terrified her. He might’ve been more sensible than his own father, the king who was originally betrayed by Leuis and began the campaign against the humans, but he still often killed for pleasure. He even murdered his own father in cold blood, although Lise wasn’t sure the humans realized they’d been fighting a different demon for the last seven years. She’s terrified he’ll kill her once he gets what he wants for no other reason than the fact that she is Leuis’ offspring.

“How can I trust him?” she asks, back still turned, keeping her hands moving so she can almost ignore the way they tremble.

“That’s the whole point of the wedding vows,” Eobard replies, voice soft again, already well aware of her concerns. “ _‘I shall never partake of thy passing’_ should assure you that he will never try to kill you, neither directly nor indirectly. He’s likewise offering you half of his kingdom as his spouse. If you accept, you’ll soon sit on the throne that’s rightfully yours, Lisamarie.”

“His parents were exiled before he was even conceived,” she mutters, feeling every muscle in her back and neck drawing tight. “There’s no way of telling if he’s really a sidhe or just some sorcerer.”

Most humans assumed that the status of ‘sidhe’ came from being a close descendant of one. In all actuality, it didn’t matter who your parents were. _All_ magic came from the sidhe. The only difference between a sorcerer and a fae was whether or not they were bound by the vows they made. A sidhe had to keep their word and could likewise bind others to their own promises. It was only sidhe descendants born in the human world, such as the current Zolomon, who occasionally lost this restriction.

Of course, Leonard was born in the human world—and to a human mother, no less, and was still bound by his word. This Zolomon was more powerful than even his father, so Lise had a sense he was probably a sidhe. He just drew upon the well of his powers with such _ease_ … There could be no other explanation.

And yet…

“I wish I could tell you one way or the other, but I’ve never seen him make a vow,” Eobard replies. “He’s never had to. All I _can_ say is that there’s someone he would very much like to marry if you don’t take him up on his offer—an offer, I might add, that isn’t going to be available for much longer.”

That gives her pause.

She glances at him over her shoulder, her heart in her throat again, fluttering like a mad bird trapped in a cage.

Somewhat stiffly, Eobard rises from his seat. “He’s almost well enough to travel. He’ll be paying Prince Bartholomew a personal visit soon. Once he gets his oath of loyalty out of the boy, I’m afraid he will no longer need your assistance to overthrow your father.”

She’s been aware of that eventuality for quite some time, but she assumed Zolomon would be down for the count much longer than this. His wound was almost fatal. Granted, she has no idea if it was so grievous because the blade was made of iron or if he was stabbed somewhere vital, but he’s still more powerful than even she assumed if he’s already gearing up to resume his campaign across the continent.

“How soon?” she asks, rising to face him once again.

“I don’t know. Could be weeks; could be months. Certainly not another year.”

“That’s not reassuring at all.”

“Lise,” he says, voice soft, almost pleading. “When the time comes, _please_ choose wisely.”

“I will.”

He stares at her for a long moment as if he isn’t sure she understands the severity of the situation, but then he finally nods his head goodbye and disappears back into the forest.

Lise stares after him for a while, waiting until he’s gone from sight before she kneels down to collect her basket.

At the back of her mind, her brother’s summoning rings.

With a small twinge of guilt in her heart, she tries to ignore it as best she can.

~***~

It’s been a week since Len supposedly set up his summoning circle, but Barry still hasn’t lost hope.

It might be because Eobard hasn’t graced him with his presence since their last unfortunate meeting, or it could be the fact that he suddenly has company again after so long. Either way, he’s happier then he’s been in a long time.

Len typically disappears into the forest at night, presumably to sleep somewhere well hidden, but he otherwise spends his days on the dock, keeping Barry company as he either sharpens his weapons or pores over maps of places Barry has never personally been before. When Barry asks him about some of the more obscure locations, Len tells him they’re of provinces in the far north, all of which are currently under Zolomon’s rule.

“Life goes on as usual under his command,” Len explains. “For the most part. His troops patrol the land he’s already taken, but he’s not in the habit of razing every city he’s conquered to the ground. The normal folk work and play as usual.”

“Makes sense,” Barry sighs, staring over the edge of the dock at the nearest map. Len is sitting cross-legged on the other side, watching as Barry turns the map around to better read the words printed there. He recognizes this map in particular and the one to the right it. “It takes a lot of time and effort to subdue a whole country, let alone the seven he’s already taken. All he really wants is the title of Emperor, anyway.”

“He certainly hasn’t pulled his punches with the respective monarchies, that’s for sure.”

“Would you ever consider living under his rule?”

“His soldiers police the cities a little too enthusiastically, in my opinion. It can be suffocating living there.”

“Are you a criminal?”

Len blinks at him, momentarily caught off guard. He schools his features quickly, though Barry’s already seen the honest surprise written on his face. “That almost sounds like an accusation,” he murmurs.

“I don’t care if you are,” Barry laughs, because, honestly, what does he have worth stealing in this godforsaken place? He turns the map toward Len and points to one of the buildings over which a strange symbol has been lightly drawn. “It says here that this is a treasury. You don’t look like someone who works in a treasury. So why did you mark it?”

“Who says I marked it?”

Barry shrugs before he reaches over to tap the other map rolled out between them, pointing out another symbol. “That’s the palace of Estabrov, home of the House of Palmer, purportedly once one of the richest families on the continent. Are you going to tell me you didn’t mark this one either?”

There’s a very telling pause before Len rolls up the maps and stuffs them into his small leather satchel, but he’s smiling as he says, “I bought these second hand.”

“From a thief?”

“Perhaps.”

Truthfully, Len being a criminal is one of Barry’s least favorite guesses as to the man’s everyday occupation, but it fits the bill from what he knows about him so far. Len’s a winter sidhe, which was made abundantly clear during their first encounter, and yet his uncanny ability to wander the forest freely without interference from Eobard is unlike any of the other faerie talents Barry’s heard from lore. His stealth feels more like a personal quality, something learned out of necessity, not inherited. His body language, too, leads credence to Barry’s theory. He’s overly confident and maintains eye contact much longer than the norm, a common trait Barry’s observed in thieves who’ve tried to rob him discretely in the past. Likewise, Len very rarely moves only one hand a time, the fingers of his free hand always twitching whenever he gestures with the other, as if he’s accustomed to making slight-of-hand tricks, always ready with a distraction.

His sword, too, seems utterly out of place on his person. Len’s clothes are well-worn, to put it politely, and yet the falchion and it’s scabbard are as good as new. And costly. Of course, Barry’s fairly certain he caught a glimpse of a small ruby in Len’s satchel when it tipped over the other day, which suggests he obviously has the funds to buy the falchion outright, although the fact remains that he could’ve stolen it.

And/or the ruby.

The final straw was their little discussion today. Besides the curious markings on the maps, Len’s offhanded remark that Zolomon’s minions police the land a little too enthusiastically for his liking _right_ _after_ admitting that life hasn’t changed too much for the commoners under his rule smacks of someone who likes to get into trouble with the authorities.  

Unless…

“Alright then,” Barry cedes, gazing unwaveringly into Len’s silvery eyes. “My second best guess is that you’re a member of some royal family on the run. As soon as Zolomon gets his hands on you, you’re done for.”

This, curiously, is what finally breaks the staring match between them. Len’s gaze flicks to one side as he clears his throat and says, “You caught me. I’m a thief.”

Barry blinks in surprise. Of the two accusations, this is not the one he thought Len would fold under. “What. Really?”

“You’re very observant,” he drawls, somehow managing to sound both condescending and impressed. Barry’s figures it must be the latter when Len reaches into his satchel and pulls out a small ruby, like the one Barry saw before. This he passes to the prince. “Consider this compensation for your silence.”

Barry takes the ruby but snorts at his last comment. “You _do_ realize I have oodles of these at home, don’t you?”

“Sure, but how often to you get to play with them?”

“Not often,” he admits, holding it up to the light, fascinated by the way it looks like a droplet of fire pinched between his thumb and forefinger. In fact, the only other time he held a precious gem was when he was shown the garnets and red tourmalines that would be incorporated into the diadems fashioned for him and his future spouse.  

He can feel Len watching him out of the corner of his eye. The man is remarkably unabashed when it comes to openly staring at someone. Barry would feel unnerved if not for the fact that he doesn’t exactly _mind_ the other man’s attention…

“What?” Barry asks, still eyeing the ruby.

“Red’s your color,” Len replies.

There’s a small flutter of emotions in the pit of his stomach, something Barry hasn’t felt in a long time. Hoping to distract Len from the fact that his minor compliment struck a pleasant chord, Barry flicks his tail in the water. “What was your first guess?”

There’s a small huff of amusement from Len before he says, “I meant what I said. You’re observant, kid. Being able to read people well will do wonders for you as a king.”

“I’m not as observant as you think,” Barry replies, feeling somewhat down all of a sudden. He places the small ruby gently on one of the wooden boards, and pushes away from the dock, rolling onto his back. He floats there for a while, staring at the puffy white clouds above. “Eobard was waltzing around in my mentor’s skin for almost a month before he trapped me here, and I didn’t have the slightest a clue.”

“Thawne’s speciality is illusions. That’s why his traps are usually top notch.” Taking a page out of Barry’s book, Len stretches out on his back, staring up into the sky. “How did he ensnare your mentor? I’m assuming he needed his body in order to cross the border and lure you out here, but that doesn’t explain how he got into your kingdom in the first place.”

Barry sighs.

Harrison’s story was a truly unfortunate one. He married young, but he and his wife tried to conceive for ages without success. It wasn’t until Barry himself was born that they finally lucked out, but young Jesse was barely a year old when her mother vanished. Rumor had it that she made a deal with the sidhe, requesting the ability to bear a child in exchange for her servitude. The more speculative types suggested she had therefore been dragged unceremoniously to the world below to uphold her side of the bargain.

Harrison, of course, was beside himself with grief. He raised his daughter as best he could and continued to perform his duties admirably, but his wife’s disappearance had changed him into the melancholy and reserved man, one who wasn’t afraid to explore the magic of the sidhe in unusual ways.

“His wife vanished years ago,” Barry finally explains. “Eobard created an illusion of her just outside the border. Once word of this illusion made its way back to my mentor, he decided to investigate the sightings himself.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Len murmurs. “How then did Eobard use this man to then lure you out of the kingdom?”

“Exchanging life stories now, are we?”

Len cranes his head to the side to stare down at Barry over the lip of the dock, studying him briefly with his silvery eyes before lying back down again. “Only if you want.”

Reminiscing on that fateful night is always a painful affair. Oddly enough, though, Barry wants to tell Len. At least, he figures he owes it to the man for weaseling to truth out of him concerning his ‘vocation’ if for no other reason at all.

He thinks back on his clandestine journey to the Apagorev Forest and the agony waiting for him there once Eobard put his plan in motion. With a sigh, he says, “I was naïve. Nobody knows how my mother was able to build the barrier around the kingdom or how long it will last. With Zolomon always lurking in the periphery of our lives, I felt it was my duty to find a way to get rid of him. Once Eobard had my mentors body, he told me he found a sidhe in the forest who’d informed him that a person could find what they desired most at the bottom of the lake.”

“Such as a weapon?”

“That was what I thought. Foolishly, I believed him.”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained, kid.”

“Barry.”

“Hm?” Len hummed, leaning over the edge again.

“You can call me ‘Barry’, you know. I haven’t been a kid for quite some time.”

There’s a familiar quirk at the corner of Len’s lips. “Alright, _Barry_ …how did he change you into a merman? With a flick of a wrist and a puff of smoke?”

Barry almost laughs at the visual. “No, he…gave me a _seed_ to eat. It was cursed by Zolomon, which is why I need to swear my allegiance to him.”

Len sits up again suddenly, staring off into the middle difference, brows furrowed in thought. “I should’ve asked this earlier,” he says faintly. “Sooner or later we’re going to need to find our own way to break the curse. Tell me everything you know about your condition.”

Barry dives underwater briefly before pulling up beside the dock again. Len’s dedication to his predicament touches something inside of him that’s rarely seen the light of day this past year.

He usually doesn’t have much of a reason to allow himself to _hope_.

Barry crosses his arms over the dock and takes a deep breath. “Well…the seed is from the same plant used by the people along the coast. It normally only transforms a person for a manner of weeks, but Zolomon modified it so that I can’t revert to my human form on my own.”

“Sounds pretty cut and dry to me.”

“It’s more complicated than you think. Technically, my transformation will become permanent to a degree beyond even his control if I don’t eat the flower of the same plant once every thirty days. It turns me human for a while before the curse takes a hold of me again.”

This definitely piques Len’s interest. “How long is ‘a while’?” he presses.

“A manner of minutes.”

Len frowns again and stares off into the forest. Barry knows what he’s thinking. It takes considerably longer than a few minutes to trek through the Apagorev and across the border.

After some consideration, Len asks, “If we were to remove you from the water, how long do you think you’d last before you died?”

“I can’t die.”

Len blinks at him in confusion.

“It’s a part of the curse,” Barry elaborates. “I don’t age, and I can’t die. When Zolomon threatened me with everlasting solitude, he meant it.”

Len is silent for another long moment, his silvery eyes darting to Barry’s arm, where he grabbed the prince the day they met. Len’s attack certainly smarted, but the damage was reversed almost immediately. In fact, Barry hardly remembers the pain.

“I tried crawling into the forest on my own once,” Barry continues. “I passed out. When Eobard came to visit me that night, he dragged me back.”

“That must’ve been quite the sight.”

“Ha ha,” Barry deadpans.

“It’s certainly an option,” Len sighs, “if not a favorable one. Carrying a dead weight through the forest will make us an easy target. No offence.”

“None taken.”

“We’ll consider it Plan C for now.”

“What are Plans A and B?”

“I’m working on them.” Len waves his hand, dismissing his question. “Is there anything else you can tell me about this curse?”

Barry is about to shake his head when he realizes that there is, in fact, one other thing he should probably mention. But it’s stupid, really. And irrelevant…

Faced with Barry’s obvious hesitation, Len drums the fingers of his right hand against the dock to get his attention again. “Don’t grow shy on me now, Scarlet. I can stomach a gruesome story. Every detail is essential.”

“It isn’t gruesome,” Barry replies. It’s more depressing than anything, really. “And I don’t know if it’s relevant.”

“ _Everything_ is relevant.”

He nods his head, because that’s very true…

The fifth month into his imprisonment was when Barry hit his lowest point. Nothing about his condition was pleasant, but this was the first time he broke down crying in front of Eobard, begging for any alternative to what Zolomon wanted from him. He couldn’t betray his people, but he also couldn’t bear to think of how his absence was probably killing his father.

Surprisingly, Eobard looked decently perturbed by Barry’s sorrow. He shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other and said a sign of love from his other half could probably break the curse before reminding Barry that he had no lovers and that thinking he could get out of this situation with archaic magic was childish. Then he tossed Barry his flower before retreating back into the forest, for once forgoing his usual spiel on how much better Barry’s life would be if he only gave in to Zolomon’s offer.

“A sign of love from my other half might break the curse,” Barry finally relents, hoping Len doesn’t laugh.

And Len doesn’t, which is a relief, although he is slow to respond. “So…a kiss from your lover is what you’re saying?”

“I don’t have a lover,” he says quietly. He’s had a few passionate nights, but not with anyone he feels particularly fond of anymore. In fact, he’s already learned the hard way that some people will say just about anything to worm their way between his thighs.

Thinking back on his naivety makes him feel like an idiot.

“And I take it the dating pool is abysmal in these parts,” Len quips as he gazes out at the lake.

His stupid pun startles a laugh out of Barry, relieving some of his tension. “You’re not wrong.”

“We’ll add it to the bottom of the list,” Len says as he gradually pushes himself up onto his feet, dragging his satchel up and over his shoulder as he goes. “For now, I’m going to see what’s taking my contact so long. Hopefully, I’ll have news for you by tomorrow.”

Usually, this is the point where Barry would remind his companion to be careful, but he feels somewhat relaxed after their discussion, enough so that he finally says what he meant to tell Len long ago. “Thank you.”

Len nods his welcome at Barry and then strolls down the dock toward the forest. Barry almost ducks down below the water as soon as he’s out of sight, but then he spots the ruby Len gave him earlier still sitting on the dock. He picks it up, smiling despite himself, and takes it with him as he disappears into the lake.

~***~

He hides it well, but he’s worried about Lise.

While she hated traveling aboveground, she was usually good about sending him a message when she was incapable of meeting up with him. A solid week of silence is uncharacteristic of her. He hates to think that she might be dead or otherwise indisposed.

He returns to the summoning circle to discover that the dirt is still unperturbed. If she was dead, her name would’ve faded by now, so at least that’s one less thing he has to worry about. All the same, she must be in quite the bind to be ignoring him for so long. After all, she made a vow she would always help him whenever she safely could.

Troubled, Len draws his falchion and cuts open his palm again, squeezing more blood into the circle. If this doesn’t get her attention, he doesn’t know what will.

Fortunately, her response time is infinitely better today. He’s only just begun to wrap up his hand with his handkerchief when he senses her behind him. He turns to watch as she works her way between the trees to his little clearing and is openly surprised to see how pale she is in comparison to her naturally darker tones. Even her hair looks limper than usual.

Clearly, she’s been above ground longer than she’s used to.

“You look tired,” Len says, not wanting to insult her by outright asking her what the matter is.

Lise crosses her arms and leans her right shoulder into the nearest tree trunk, glancing down at his summoning circle. “I’m on something of a quest to find myself.”

“Uncovered anything of interest yet?”

“Plenty,” she sighs. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier. Things have been kind of hairy for me lately.”

“Do you need an assist?”

“Hardly,” she snorts, chin tilted up at him in jest. She’s a proud woman, but she has every right to be.

You’d have to be an absolute fool to underestimate Lisamarie.

“So what’s your story?” she asks, nodding her heard at the circle. “It’s not often you need to call in a favor.”

“I’m assuming you can already sense Eobard Thawne is out and about in the forest?”

“Yeee _eees_ ,” she says cautiously, shifting her weight against the tree.

“He’s imprisoned a boy in a lake not too far—”

“No.”

He pauses, admittedly surprised. “What do you mean ‘ _no_ ’? ‘No, he’s not really a prisoner’, ‘No, I can’t help you’, ‘No, you—’”

“ _No_ , I can’t go near the lake,” she says, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry.”

“Alright…” Curious. But not the end of the world. He’s willing to bet anything Eobard has something to do with her reluctance to help, but he’s not going to push his luck. “Can you deliver a message for me?”

“Depends on the message and where it’s going.”

“I take it I can’t explicitly mention the prince?”

“Correct.”

“And sending you directly to King Henry or any member of his court would be asking too much?”

“Also correct.”

She was really starting to put a damper on things, considering he needed her for both his Plan A and his Plan B.

It looks like he was just going to have to improvise.

“Can you at least deliver a message to _Mick_?” he asks, sounding somewhat strained.

She only hesitates for a second before she says, “I can do that, but only if you promise not to mention the lake or its current inhabitant.”

Annoying, but he’ll take what he can get. “I promise,” he says.

Reaching into his satchel, Len rummages around for the notebook he found last week and tears another blank page out of the back. Just as he’s about to search the foliage for a halfway decent twig, Lise extends her hand to him. Within her grasps is a long, brown thorn, dripping with some kind of black toxin at the end.

“Careful,” she says as he takes the makeshift pen from her and settles down on a moss covered rock to ponder what his letter should say.

Halfway through writing his instructions, Lise says, “You’re not in love, are you?”

Len stops mid-sentence as he digests her question. There’s a curious clench of warm in the pit of his stomach, the same sensation he usually gets whenever he sees Barry. He doesn’t think it’s love, but it _is_ wholly unlike anything he’s felt for all the other lads and ladies he’s spent his passion with in the wilder days of his youth. He never thought he could trust someone enough to love them.

But Barry…

When he resumes writing again, he keeps his eyes on his work, worried she might see something in him he’s still too frightened to confront. “If you think I’ve gotten soft, you’re mistaken,” he mutters. “If the prince had legs instead of a tail, I would’ve had my way with him ages ago.”

The sharp pain in his chest tells him otherwise.

“That’s good,” Lise replies, although she only sounds half-convinced. “Because sidhe don’t fall in love, Lenny. We covet, and we lust. Please keep that in mind when the times comes for you to run.”

“I know how to recognize when a deal is about to go south,” he grumbles. “If this situation takes a turn for the worse, I’ll split.”

That sharp pain persists.

It tells him that’s a horrible lie.

“Just checking,” she says with a shrug, pulling a stray thread off her emerald green robes. Even as drained as she is, Lise somehow manages to look like a goddess. “Because, you know, I’m struggling to understand why you’d want to help him in the first place…”

“I have a hard time saying no to a pretty face.”

“And?”

Len shifts uncomfortably on his perch, trying to write a little quicker, hoping to end this conversation before it becomes truly unbearable. “He’s pledged me the assistance of his court if I help him. Some of the sorcerers in King Henry’s employ are more powerful that even our father’s closest confidants. If they can’t find a way to shield me from the old bastard indefinitely, I don’t know who can.”

This, at least, seems to satisfy her curiosity. She nods in understanding, all too aware of how desperately he wants to avoid their father.

Finally, he finishes off the letter. He folds it in half and then half again before handing both it and the thorn to his sister. She tucks them into some hidden pocket within her robes and then takes a step back from him, the grass shifting around her feet. Vines slither up from under the dead foliage, winding their way up her bare ankles. Gradually, she begins to sink into the ground.

As a native of the world below, Lise is far better at transitioning between the two dimensions and finding waypoints to far flung places. Len doesn’t know if Eobard’s barrier extends to the world below the same way Queen Nora’s does around her kingdom, but he would never take Lise’s approach both because he didn’t know all the waypoints like she did and because he’s almost a hundred percent certain his father’s men would know the moment he transitioned into their world. He’d get caught in a heartbeat.

“Thank you, Lise,” he says as the vines wind their way up her waist, pulling her down faster.

Before her head sinks below the surface, she winks at him and smiles.

He desperately hopes she gets his message to Mick alright.

~***~

“She doesn’t have an answer for you yet,” Eobard sighs from where he stands by the window, gazing out at the flurry of snowflakes and the vague outline of the black cliff face on the other side of the glass. Wayne’s palace has been serving as Zolomon’s stronghold for over a year now. Eobard can’t help but think that of all the castles Zolomon’s taken so far, this one suits him best. “Neither does the prince.”

 _“Time is such a luxury,”_ Zolomon murmurs through the small shield grill across his mouth. He’s still recuperating, still training his body. He hasn’t regained all of his old muscle mass yet. Even so, he’s eager to continue his campaign and is currently being fitted for a new suit of armor, something far superior to the last set.

After all, he doesn’t want a repeat performance of his battle with Bruce.

“But the boy’s resolve is weakening,” Eobard continues. He knows Barry is slowly losing his mettle, that he’s grown weary of his internment in the lake. “When you confront him, he _will_ break.”

There’s a lull in their conversation, the silence interrupted only by the sounds of the man retaking the measurements of Zolomon’s calves, adjusting a few straps of his armor.

Just as Eobard is about to turn and leave, Zolomon says, _“I want to see him.”_

With the taste of victory so close at hand, Eobard can’t blame him for his eagerness. He approaches the body-length mirror propped up in the corner and taps the glass. The pane ripples like the surface of a pool of water as the shadows of the room twist and converge in their reflection before giving way to the cool blue scene at the bottom of the lake.

Barry is lying on the sandy bottom beside a large, submerged boulder. Rippled sunshine dances across his pale skin and vibrant red scales as he sways his caudal fin gently to and fro with the underwater current. He is smiling to himself, beaming up at something pinched between his fingers, a speck of a pink stone that glimmers in the light…

Confused, Eobard takes a step closer to the mirror, squinting at the image. The boy is holding a gemstone of some sort.

There are no such deposits in or around the lake, at least to his knowledge.

After a moment of consideration, Zolomon says, _“It would appear the prince has a visitor.”_

Eobard knew someone was sneaking around in the forest, but finally seeing the proof of his suspicion puts a fire in his blood. Killing Cisco feels like even more of a waste now that he knows someone else could’ve slipped in and out of the Apagorev unseen and spoiled the secret of the prince’s whereabouts.

“Leuis’ peons have set up camp close to the forest,” Eobard mutters, waving his hand at the mirror and banishing the image. The colors bleed away into the more somber tones of Zolomon’s bedroom, black against black in the dim, wintery light. “Even if it isn’t Amaya or her soldiers, I’ll find out who’s been keeping him company. They won’t live long enough to spoil our plans, I assure you.”

 _“I would much rather you work the situation to better suit our needs,”_ Zolomon corrects him quietly. For all his fiendish ways, he’s certainly calmer than his father ever was. _“Stifle the boy’s hope, but don’t snuff it out completely.”_

Eobard tries to rein his temper in, exerting his pent up frustration by pacing back and forth across the room. He feels stupid for letting his guard down like this. He used to watch the prince almost daily, either outright or from the shadows. He’s gotten sloppy these past few months knowing Barry’s time was almost up.

 _“A strange gift, a gem,”_ Zolomon ponders aloud, as if trying to point him in the right direction. _“What sort of person would freely give such precious treasure?”_

“An admirer,” Eobard murmurs, slowing in his pacing, thinking. “And a nobleman…or a thief?” He stops suddenly as the pieces fall into place. Then he turns to Zolomon, bows, and vanishes into the aethers.

He already knows how he’s going to solve this little problem of theirs.

~***~

Despite all the hellish tales of the world below, it really is quite stunning.

Except for the tunnels.

Lise has lived here long enough—and fled for her life often enough—that she knows all the ins and outs of the passages between worlds. For the most part, they look like glorified tunnels lined with glowing lichen. She tried to teach Lenny about the back routes and waypoints when they first met, but she never had the opportunity to physically show him, and her brother’s talents lie elsewhere anyway. He’s good with traps; with timing. She, on the other hand, always knows her way. She can simply close her eyes and feel the will of simpler lifeforms all around her bending north. She can also feel Queen Nora’s border as she passes it, a barricade so potent and _deep_ Lise fancies it will probably last until the end of eternity.

It takes her about an hour to get to where she wants to go. She turns to the wall to her left and presses her hands flat against the dirt. Vines poke out between her fingers, snaking around her wrists and up her arms. Nature pulls her forward, and she allows herself to be enveloped by the earth, life’s finest cradle and grave.

She surfaces in a farmer’s field just outside the sleepy little village Mick Rory calls home. A young boy is nearby, sitting on the fence along the road as he watches his sheep graze. When he catches sight of her emerging from the ground, he falls back off his perch and runs screaming up the road.

Lise pays him no mind as she steps out onto the level earth, dirt falling from her like water as the vines retract back beneath the surface, leaving everything as it was before. She pats her hip to make sure the letter is still tucked away in her pocket and then begins her journey across the field to the village.

She doesn’t dally because she knows her father’s minions occasional monitor Mick’s house for signs of her brother. Fortunately, she has a standing invitation to his humble abode, so she doesn’t have to waste time knocking. Instead, she opens the door and passes unobstructed into his quaint little cottage to find him sound asleep in his favorite chair by the fire.

Like all members of her kind, Lise has a strong aversion to iron and fire. She can’t even step into Mick’s smithy out back without breaking into hives. Staring down his roaring fireplace has never been a pleasant ordeal.

“Mick,” she snaps. When this doesn’t rouse him, she claps her hands together and tries a little louder. “ _Mick_!”

He chokes on a particularly hideous snore and goes on slumbering.

Lise eyes the fire at the far end of the room and then turns to search her immediate surroundings for a solution. As soon as her gaze latches onto a ratty blanket in the corner, she picks it up in one hand and chucks it at her unsuspecting host.

This, at least, does the trick. Mick jerks forward suddenly, blinking rapidly as he tries to figure out what the hell just happened. When his wide-eyed gaze finally falls on her, he frowns and settles back in his chair. “Rude,” he grumbles.

“Lenny has a letter for you,” she explains, reaching into the folds of her robes to produce said letter. She waves the folded piece of paper for emphasis before depositing it on the small table in the corner.

There’s a loud creak as Mick pulls himself out of his seat. He doesn’t limp as he ambles over to the table, so she’s assuming his injuries haven’t been acting up in the last little while. She feels mildly good on his behalf.

She watches him with the same bit of faint curiosity she’s always held for this lonely man, a man who grew alongside and protected her brother for the better part of Leonard’s life—although she’s completely blindsided when he reaches into a small clay pot on the table to pull out a pair of wire reading glasses. She stares rather dumbly at them as he pushes them up his nose and snatches up the paper.

He catches her staring as he unfolds the letter. “What?” he grunts.

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “You look good.”

He levels a look at her that says he knows she’s lying, then tilts back his head to read Len’s correspondence out of the bottom half of his lenses.

Curious, she leans over to steal a glimpse of the letter.

But before she can see anything, Mick slams the letter flat against his chest. “It says you can’t peek.”

Lise is about to open her mouth to protest when she realizes she probably doesn’t _want_ to know what her brother’s written. Plausible deniability is a very real thing in the life of a sidhe, especially when she’s beholden to Eobard Thawne of all people for his help.

“I’ll be going then,” she sighs, turning to the door. As her hand closes around the copper knob, though, she pauses, glances back at him, and says, “Take care, Mick. I can only guess what kind of trouble my brother’s gotten himself into, but I know the consequences will be fatal if he doesn’t wrap this up quickly.”

Mick side-eyes her for a moment, the corner of his lip curling into a small smile before he grunts out a goodbye and continues reading.

Lise flashes him a genuine smile in return before she leaves, reminded that Len’s usually in good company when he recruits Mick into one of his heists.

She just hopes her brother knows what he’s doing this time around.

~***~

It’s been another week since Len returned with news that he finally got in touch with his contact. He’s not entirely up front about what his current plan details or who his contact is, presumably because his companion is in the same less-than-legitimate profession as himself, but he does let Barry in on the fact that he knows a few people of a botanical bend. Hopefully, one of them will know how to reverse the effects of the seed, although it might take said friends a while to tease apart the process.

Despite the lack of details, Barry has reached an elusive state of semi-contentment that allows him to comfortably take Len at his word. It also helps his mood that his present company is still alive and well, Len now holding the illustrious title of being the longest guest he’s had at the lake besides Eobard. Knowing that someone is playing in Eobard’s domain while the dark sidhe remains none the wiser tickles Barry in a very pleasant way.

Len continues to visit him daily, waiting with a kind of patience that rivals Barry’s own. The sidhe acts as though all is as it should be. It’s a contagious feeling. Barry finds it hard to worry when he’s around.

He’s enjoying the recent return of happiness to his life when Len walks out onto the dock one sunny morning, drops his satchel at his feet, and says, “How much are you like the other merfolk, your highness?”

Barry finds the way Len manages to open a conversation with such a bizarre question impressive. His confidence is alluring, to a certain degree, although Barry would never admit to that out loud.

“Beyond the basics?” Barry quips as he bends forward at the waist, flicking his caudal fin above the water’s surface with an inelegant splash.

“Can you enable other people to breathe under water?” Len clarifies as he sits down on the dock and begins pulling off his boots, followed shortly by his socks.

Barry freezes in the water, both mesmerized and slightly horrified by the fact that it appears Len is in the process of stripping. Internally, Barry battles over the fact that he isn’t entirely sure whether he should admonish Len now or wait until after the other man is completely bare for not giving him a proper warning.

He loses his train of thought briefly when Len starts thumbing open the buttons of his coat

With great personal strength, Barry tears his eyes away from Len’s nimble hands and says, “I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“Since we’re more or less killing time until the cavalry arrives, would you like to give it a go?”

“I’d have to kiss you,” Barry snorts. The gravity of what he just says hits him a moment later. He can feel his face burning as he quickly follows up with, “Because, you know, that’s supposedly how merfolk do it.”

Len finally shrugs off his coat and gets to work on the buttons of the white shirt underneath. He’s moving a little slower now, though, head tilted curiously to one side, as if he didn’t realize Barry would have any hang ups about having a naked man with him in the water. “I’m game if you are, Scarlet.”

Barry really hates it sometimes the way the dark, silky tones of Len’s voice put a knot in his stomach, the horribly mangled kind made of anxiety and excitement.

It takes Barry a moment to remind himself that he’s not some blushing teenager. Then he takes a slow, deep breath through his nose to clear his mind ,and, with a bit of his own confidence, finally says, “Let’s find out.”

Len offers him a lazy kind smile as he finally peels off his shirt, as if he expects Barry to fly off into the darkest depths of the lake like some blushing virgin once he sees what lies beneath.

Fortunately, Barry isn’t a virgin of any sort, although seeing Len’s remarkably toned physique on display does make him feel a bit like one again. Essentially, he looks exactly about as slender as Barry imagined he would but for the shadow of what was once a nasty gash just to the left of his navel.

Barry was raised with good manners, but he’s lived in isolation long enough that his regular filter fails spectacularly on him when he opens his mouth and asks, “How’d you get that?”

Whatever momentum was building between them in that moment does an epic faceplant when Len glances down at his mark and his smile falters. He traces his fingertips lightly against the long and angry red line, as if he himself had almost forgotten about it.

“Someone was trying to prove a point,” he finally says, voice distant.

“What kind of point?”

“That I’m more sidhe than human.”

Barry sinks a little deeper into the water until it touches the bottom of his jaw. He’d like to retreat a little further than that, but he has a personal philosophy of never running from his mistakes, no matter how hotly his face is burning.

Surprisingly, Len doesn’t allow this little hiccup to stall him for long. He focuses his silvery eyes on Barry again, a mischievous crook returning to the corner of his lips as he says, “Looks good doesn’t it?”

“It looks painful,” Barry replies.

“Most people find it impressive.”

“I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, Len pops open the buckle on his scabbard belt and drops his falchion onto the pile. His trousers are all that’s left, but Len doesn’t make any gesture to remove them as he swings his legs over the edge of the dock and into the water. He does, however, catch Barry staring at his midriff with mild confusion. With his usual smug drawl, he says, “I don’t think we both need to be naked for this.”

Indignant, Barry opens his mouth to argue, but then slowly closes it again when he realizes that he is, in fact, technically naked at the moment. Mildly embarrassed by this revelation, he changes the topic as quickly as humanly possible: “Can you swim?”

Len smirks at him before he drops over the edge of the dock. He’s entirely submerged for all of two second before he smoothly surfaces in front of Barry.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” Barry mumbles, somewhat stunned to have someone other than Eobard in such close proximity again. Their faces are less than a foot apart.

Barry feels genuinely naked under his stare.

More than naked, actually. That flutter of emotions is back, a few good and a few less so. Desire is there, of course, but fear as well. Not the fear of humiliation, but rather the apprehension of disappointment.

Why, he doesn’t know.

Len studies his face quietly, not touching him. Then he quietly says, “Lead the way.”

Barry doesn’t know how he’s supposed to do that, but his hands seem to have a mind of their own as they cup the sides of Len’s neck gently before he sinks down into the water. Len goes with him, relaxed in his grip, keeping his eyes trained on Barry. He’s cold to the touch, more so than the average person. It sends a pleasant chill down Barry’s spine as he pulls Len even closer and finally presses his lips gently against his companion’s mouth.

The kiss lasts a heartbeat in reality, but that heartbeat stretches into a small eternity inside his mind as Barry slowly pulls away, utterly unchanged.

It’s then that he realizes what he was dreading about this little exchange.

As much of a blessing Len’s help has been to him so far, there’s no chance he could be Barry’s elusive ‘other half’.

As heartsick as he feels about that little revelation, Barry’s careful not to let it show as he releases his hold on Len. The other man looks perplexed, but he makes no move to resurface. Barry figures Len must feel changed in his own way, because he allows himself to sink another metre until his feet touch the rocks beneath the dock.

Barry swims down to him, doing lazy circles around the other man, wondering if Len feels the same fullness Barry always experiences whenever he takes in a lungful of water. He’s likewise thinking of how unfortunate it is that they don’t have a way of really communicating down here when he suddenly feels something brush up against the pelvic fin under his left hip.

Barry jerks away on reflex, surprised by how ticklish his fins are. Apologetically, Len holds his hands up and away for a moment before relaxing them at his sides again.

Startled as he is, Barry still smiles, shaking his head in a wordless warning not to try that again.

Unless, of course, Len wants him to accidentally tail-whip him in the face.

Barry continues to do lazy circles around his companion as Len adjusts to the water. Barry isn’t sure how long the magic will last, but the depth of the lake is no more than twenty feet at it’s deepest point. As long as Barry keeps an eye on him, there’s little chance of him drowning.

Eventually, Len kicks off the rocks and allows himself to float beside Barry. He nods his head toward the centre of the lake, as if asking for guidance.

There isn’t much to see but Barry gets a small thrill of excitement out of finally having the opportunity to show someone his secret world. He swims languidly beside Len through the small maze of black tupelo and bald cypress roots, white columns digging down into the silty and sandy sediment at the bottom of the lake. Long green tendrils of wisteria and moneywort crop up here and there, small silvery fish darting between the plants as they pass. They scatter with more urgency when Len’s shadow eclipses them.

The water is clear and bright ahead of them, the sunlight dancing across the quartz below them. Barry pulls ahead of his guest to direct him toward his little home, a crag of rocks surrounding a little cave that’s only seven feet deep. Barry slept in there the first month of his imprisonment. Or rather, he _hid_ in there the first month of his imprisonment, until he realized the tight squeeze between the stones felt more like a prison than anything else in the lake. Now he usually half-burrows beneath the sediment during the night so that he can soak up the heat from the sun as soon as day breaks. He’s always a little cold in this place, always yearning for warmth, although considerably more so in the winter, which is a whole other test of his fortitude.

Under the shadow of one of the rocks is his rusted dagger and a small copper cup he found completely by fluke one day on the wide beach stretch out along the opposite side of the lake. Inside it sits the small ruby Len gifted to him a week ago.

His companion picks it up momentarily before dropping in back in the cup. Then Len kicks his way up toward the surface.

Barry follows him, running a hand through his wet hair after he himself surfaces, laughing at how Len gasps for air. “Was the spell wearing off?” he asks, amused.

“No,” Len rasps. “Just…stay here for moment.”

Len ducks his head under again, but he doesn’t swim away. Barry remains where he is, puzzled, until Len resurfaces, spitting out water, coughing.

Barry gets it now. “As soon as you take a breath of air, it wears off,” he surmises. “Are you going to be okay? Do you want to head back?”

As soon as Len can breathe again without hacking up a lung, his cold fingers curl around Barry’s left wrist, tugging him close. “There’s one last thing I’d like to do.”

There’s that stupid flutter again. Barry tries to stamp down the sensation as they sink together beneath the surface, floating in the quiet blue space between heaven and earth. Len’s other hand reaches up to cup the side of his face. Barry closes his eyes as Len leans forward. Their lips meet again.

This time, Barry feels content.

When he feels Len slipping away from him, Barry opens his eyes again. He watches as Len swims back toward his little nest and drops something into his copper cup, which Barry immediately investigates as soon as Len withdraws.

It turns out to be a yellowish stone. A citrine, if he’s not mistaken.

More of Len’s loot, it appears.

Barry’s too flattered to think unfavorably of the gesture. In fact, by the time they reach the dock and surface again, Barry’s still battling the urge to smile. He’s seen fewer citrines in his life than rubies. They’re quite rare this far south.

Waterlogged and clearly exhausted from the excursion, Len walks up the beach and drops heavily onto the sand. He leans back slowly and braces himself up on his elbows, relaxing.

“Good exercise,” Barry quips, “isn’t it?”

“Great for the heart, I’m sure.”

“So…what was that about?” he asks, nodding his head back toward the centre of the lake. “You’ve already bought my silence.”

“Consider it compensation for indulging me today,” Len replies, silvery eyes studying him, half-narrowed with fatigue.

Or perhaps something a little more.

“A simple ‘thank you’ would’ve sufficed,” Barry says softly, “but I appreciate the gift all the same.”

At this distance it’s hard to tell, but he’s almost certain he’s brought the ghost of a smile to the other man’s lips.

Barry smiles too as he sinks back into the water.

~***~

“Are all sidhe bewitching?”

“What makes you think _any_ sidhe is bewitching?”

Cisco can’t tell if she’s joking, but he’s too shy to admit he’s beginning to fall for her.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been in her care. Sometimes, it feels like weeks. Other times, it feels like a single moment stretching into eternity, the sensation of deepest contentment enveloping him forever. There is pain where he was stabbed but he hardly feels connected to it anymore.

He hasn’t left Lise’s den since she brought him here, too weak to even sit up on his own the first few days of his convalescence. Lise brings him fresh water and fruit every day, helps him bath and rubs ointment on his wound. His tender flesh knits itself together again much sooner than he would expect. He knows this has something to do with her unusual talents.

At first, he wondered if this cocoon was a prison. The vines part for Lise without so much as a word from her before knotting themselves tightly together again. He initially thought they only bowed to her command, but after he was well enough to stand again, he realized the vines would also twitch open at his fingertips, leaving a hole large enough for him to pass through comfortably.

But he doesn’t go.

He has vivid nightmares of meeting Eobard again outside the Apagorev. He remembers the dagger slipping between his ribs without resistance. There was pressure then and immense pain as it was finally withdrawn—withdrawing _him_ with it, sending him spiraling to the farthest reaches of his existence.

When he sees the hole in the vines and the dark forest beyond it, his fear comes bubbling back to the surface. He chokes and retreats, curling up on the nest of leaves and falling into a fitful and feverish sleep.

Lise is the only thing that’s makes life bearable at the moment. He doesn’t know what she does when she is away, but when she comes to visit she keeps him occupied with her conversation. She is intelligent and kind, but also feisty and curious. She tells him anything and everything he wants to know about her world, but only in exchange for information of his own.

Today, for example, he wants to know if he’s falling in love with her because of who she is or if her ethereal charm is just another talent of hers.

“No reason,” he finally says, realizing rather belatedly that he has no way of approaching this subject without alerting her to his suspicions.

Thankfully, Lise looks genuinely confused, smiling in that curious way of hers from where she’s sitting beside him, weaving a new basket. “I mean…love potions _do_ exist, but they’re nowhere near as romantic as anyone thinks they are. Not unless you _want_ a completely mindless paramour.”

“How ‘mindless’ are we talking?”

“Like a zombie.”

“What’s a zombie?”

“I pray you never find out,” she laughs, sounding a little strained, as if zombies were more trouble than they were worth. “My turn—what’s he like, this friend of yours?”

They haven’t talked about Barry in a long time, so it takes him a while to figure out who she’s referring to. “He’s so much more than friend,” Cisco finally replies once he realizes. Since he’s begun to heal in earnest, he’s also begun to sense the many vibrations of the world again, Barry’s signature included, which is so much stronger here in the forest. “He’s like…a brother. I always remember this one time when we were five or six years old and he told me I could have the whole left side of the castle when we grew up. His dad, of course, said he couldn’t actually do that, so then Barry told me I could have half of his toys for life instead.”

His little story startles a laugh out of Lise. “Which side of a castle is the ‘left side’?”

“I don’t know, but he kept his promise about the toys. Any time he got something new, I got to play with it whenever I wanted. Life is good when you’re friends with royalty.”

“He sounds like a man of his word.”

“Definitely.” Cisco pushes himself up gingerly, sitting against the wall of vines beside his makeshift bed so he can watch Lise work. “Easily the nicest guy I know. Fun to banter with. Always tries to do what’s right…” He pauses for a moment. “You would like him.”

She hums softly in agreement without looking up from her work.

Internally bracing himself, Cisco asks, “Isn’t there anything you can do for him?”

“I already made a vow that I would mind my own business while I’m here,” she sighs, “ _but_ …you’ll be pleased to know I’ve indirectly aided someone else in helping him.”

“You did?” he beams. “Who?”

“My brother, although I hardly know why he’s so interested in the prince.”

“Who’s your brother?”

“That’s not important.” She picks up another dried vine and begins weaving the next layer on her basket. “Ask me something else.” 

He’s too excited to figure out what else to ask. It takes him a minute to think of an interesting topic. “I guess…how much of what the humans know about Zolomon is actually true?”

“I don’t know. What _do_ you already know about him?”

“Just that he somehow amassed an army of sidhe twenty or so years ago and decided to conquer the continent, all because that’ll supposedly give him the right amount of gumption to take back the Sidhe throne.”

There’s a sharp bark of laughter from Lise when he says ‘ _gumption_ ’. “Good lord, you humans are a _riot_ …” She grabs another dried vine for her basket. “Look, the sidhe have walked this earth for millennia, and we’ve been killing each other for just as long. Everyone wants to sit on the throne, but nobody really lasts long once they get it. My people are…complicated.”

“I think they sound delightful,” he deadpans.

She smirks at his humor, then licks her lips in attempt to wipe away her smile. In a more serious tone, she continues. “One of the oldest and grandest sidhe of the ancient world decided that he had enough of the fighting and put a spell on the throne. Now, no one can challenge the Ruler of the Sidhe unless they can conquer the ‘world above’ first. Aloysius Zolomon was the sidhe would created the spell and it his line held the throne for thousands of years. He, at least, was a good man.”

“Not so much his descendants, I’m guessing?”

“James Zolomon was his great great grandson and easily one of the most vicious rulers in our history. The current king, Leuis, amassed an army in secret and came to the world above centuries ago to make a vow with _every_ king on the continent. He promised each of them he would gift them twenty times their weight in gold if they would agree to claim him as their Emperor for a day.”

Cisco smiles in fascination and disbelief. “No way…”

Slowly, Lise nods. “My people were displeased enough with Zolomon’s behavior that there likely wasn’t a noble family that _didn’t_ partake of his banishment. The war was over in a day, and both Zolomon and the few supporters he did have were chased into the world above. They retreated to the mountains in the far north, where they continued to dwell for centuries.”

“Why’d he only come out of hiding now?”

Lise shrugs. “I don’t think he had enough support to begin his conquest until just recently. Leuis has been falling out of favor with his people in the last few decades, so it makes sense they would start siding with Zolomon for revenge.” She smiles again, a _very_ mischievous curl at the corner of her lips as she says, “You want to know what the _real_ kicker is?”

Cisco nods, perhaps a little too eagerly. He thinks he’s probably the only human being to get a first hand account of all the madness that’s been going on in the world below.

“James Zolomon was killed by his son shortly after Queen Nora erected her wall around your kingdom. He simply assumed his father’s mantel and continued the campaign because he still feels entitled the Sidhe throne.”

“You mean we’ve been fighting _two_ maniacs this entire time?”

“More or less.”

“Good grief…It’s a wonder Nora’s barrier has held this long.”

Lise stops weaving suddenly, squinting at him across the bed. “You mean to say you don’t know?”

Cisco blinks, feeling marginally stupid. “Uh…no? What is it I’m supposed to know?”

Lise quirks an eyebrow at him. “Nora took a trip to the world below and made a deal with Leuis to give her the strength to make that barrier. He agreed, because obviously he doesn’t want Zolomon to conquer your kingdom anymore than you do, but the greedy bastard still asked for compensation for his help.”

Something cold and noisome turns over inside his stomach. He almost doesn’t want to ask, but he does anyway: “What did he request in return for his help?”

“Initially, he wouldn’t say, only that he would come to collect after a demonstration that the barrier worked.”

Which it obviously did ten years ago, when King Henry confronted Zolomon at the border.

“When Nora had her proof, she summoned Leuis to name his price,” she continues, picking up the basket again to resume her work. She looks a little sad now, a feeling Cisco shares. “He had a young daughter, so he asked Nora to deliver her son to him so that he could one day wed their two families together.”

“ _Barry_?” Cisco snaps incredulously.

“Yes, your friend,” she sighs, looking wearier by the moment. “But your queen knew how cruel Leuis was. She realized she would be delivering her son into hell if she agreed, so she told him no.”

“Can you even do that?”  he asks. “I thought any deal made with the sidhe was pretty much written in stone.”

“If Leuis had named his terms at the start, there’s nothing she would be able to do to stop him from taking the boy. However, the laws of the universe still levied their toll against her. She fell ill after she returned home and died shortly after, I believe. The barrier still stands today, but only because Leuis sustains it, more so for his own wellbeing than anyone else’s. I think Nora knew he would, otherwise she wouldn’t have snubbed him.”

God…

Cisco sits in stunned silence for a long time, wondering if Barry knew just how much Nora sacrificed for both her country and her family. He likely didn’t know that last part, otherwise he would’ve told Cisco ages ago. There was very little that they kept from each other.

Sensing his unease, Lise tries to bring their conversation back up to a high note. “A truly noble woman, your queen. I’m not surprised her son took after her. I think she would be proud of him.”

“I think she’s probably rolling in her grave right now,” Cisco mumbles, still in shock over this revelation. “Why is Barry being kept a prisoner here? I mean, if Zolomon was holding him ransom, that would actually make sense, but King Henry doesn’t have a clue his son is still alive.”

Lise shrugs. “I don’t know the specifics of Zolomon’s plan, but I imagine your king wouldn’t put his people at risk just to save his son, no matter how much it would pain him to do so. I think Zolomon is trying to break your friend, to have him pledge his allegiance instead so that when he returns home and eventually ascends the throne, Zolomon will technically rule over all.”

And Barry…poor Barry has been Zolomon’s prisoner for over a year now.

Cisco can’t imagine what he’s had to endure.

He feels faint all of sudden.

Lise abandons her basket as soon as he begins tilting too much to one side. Gently, she helps him lie down again, tugging at the gauze around his ribs to check his wound. “Are you alright?” she asks.

“I just…I need to rest,” he says weakly.

She tucks the gauze down tight again and then brushes a hand against his face. “Your friend is strong,” she says, “and my brother is clever. Together, they will find a way to save him.”

There’s a twinge of guilt as Cisco realizes _he_ should be helping them too, but he simply nods and closes his eyes, surrendering to the pull of darkness.

Someday, somehow, Barry will be free.

~***~

He’s not in love.

…

Except he probably is.

…

It’s complicated.

Len _knows_ a kiss can be a powerful thing. Lise has shown him that time and again with how many backstabbing suitors she’s left in her wake. That’s also not to forgot Barry’s own demonstration, a figurative breath of air at the bottom of the lake, Len’s lungs freezing inside his chest in an oddly pleasant way as the prince bestowed his gift. It was like touching the sun without catching fire, opening the floodgates to a power so much greater than his own. It was a thing of wonder. He felt…elevated.

It was also a soul crushing experience to see the diminishing light in Barry’s eyes when they pulled apart and the prince remained unchanged. He could tell Barry was trying to hide his disappointment, that the kid was hoping for a sign of love from someone who could potentially mean more to him than any other person alive. That he was perhaps wondering if that person could be Len…

Admittedly, part of the reason he kissed Barry was to answer that very question himself, flattered as he was that such a noble creature would consider the likes of him worthy of love. He wasn’t expecting that hot lance of disappointment through his heart when it didn’t work, but he beat the sensation down quickly, Lise’s words of wisdom ringing in his ears. Len knows that he covets what isn’t his, that he steals more than he needs to sustain himself. He also lusts, more than once falling victim to the lick of heat at the base of his spine, succumbing to the fire he chases until the break of dawn between the pretty legs of a pretty thing who’s pretty name he can’t always remember. He’s a criminal, after all, and a low life and the unwanted spawn of a demon masquerading in a people suit. Honestly, Barry deserves so much better than him.

But at night, when Len crawls into the small lean-to he’s built deep in the forest, haphazardly coated in charms to keep Eobard Thawne at bay, he feels that same heat higher up in his chest. It pinches his heart and draws to mind Barry’s sweet face and even sweeter demeanor. He thinks of the boy’s incredible patience with Len’s curious plot for freedom and the blinding smile Len gets each morning when they meet. He wants Barry curled up warm and sated against him in the dead of night, but he also _wants_ him, all of him, each smile and tear, every drop of adoration the prince could possibly spend on another human being.

Len’s never been enamoured before, but surely _this_ must be what falling in love feels like.

But he doesn’t know, so he can’t ever truly know. And besides, magic doesn’t lie. If there was supposed to be some divine connection between them, they would’ve found out by now.

This doesn’t, however, stop Len from slowly losing his mind.

They’ve known each for roughly a month now, and Len still wants him, more so with every passing day. He kisses the boy under the pretense of further exploration of the lake, but sometimes his lips linger longer than necessary, and he wonders if love isn’t what determines the lover so much as the lover determines what budding emotion can or cannot develop into love.

He’s getting old and sentimental, it would seem.

But he still wants to run with this theory.

When Barry pulls him down into the water by the dock that morning and presses their lips together, Len cups the back of the prince’s neck to hold him still as he teases the boy with just the barest hint of a tongue. A tentative dip between the teeth and nothing more, already prepared to open his eyes and pull back, to give the kid his space—but there’s suddenly a hand on the back of his head and that mouth returns, warm and wet and oh so very inviting.

Len hooks his other arm around the kid’s waist, pressing him closer, suspended together in that sacred space between heaven and hell. Yet again, he doesn’t feel the boy change, but the part of him that is prouder than it has any right to be declares that whatever he has to offer the boy is good enough, at least insofar as showing Barry that the lonely prince is indeed loved.

When they finally part, Len surfaces, momentarily blinded by the dazzling sunlight reflected off the surface of the water. The sunlight hasn’t bothered him for quite some time lately. He wonders if that means he’s becoming more human than sidhe again.

Barry surfaces shortly after him, wiping his short hair back from his face. “You—” he sputters, eyes wide, mouth agape, as if he hadn’t just been an active participant in their relatively tame dance of delight.

Len smirks at him, still mesmerized by those pink lips. “Yes?” he inquires.

“But…” Barry glances down at himself, a touch of sorrow in his voice. “I’m not…”

“Stop,” Len interjects, quickly but gently, not wanting Barry to slide down that slippery slope into depression again. “Not every relationship will hold the same significance to you, but that hardly makes one more relevant than any other. Someday, I hope, you’ll think back on us in fondness, and that’s all this needs to be for you, a happy memory from the darkest period in your life.”

He wishes Barry didn’t look as beautiful in grief as he does in every other way. His brows are furrowed with distress and his eyes are red, like he might just cry, and all Len stupidly wants to do is kiss him again.

He wonders briefly if the kid’s ever had anything approaching a serious relationship before, if Barry might reject the idea of having a lesser love. But then he remembers Barry is a prince, which means every aspect of his romantic life, right on down to his eventual marriage, is going to be a conscripted event, heavily critiqued and not entirely based on love. Maybe this is a foreign concept to him, the idea that two strangers passing briefly in the night can impact one another in a way that could last for years to come.

Or maybe Len is wrong. Maybe he’s been a disciple of the ‘love them and leave them’ school of thought for too long. Maybe love can only be an ‘all or nothing’ ordeal for normal people.

Or maybe he should stop thinking too deeply on the subject. After all, a philosopher he most certainly is _not_.

Barry saves Len from himself then as he sinks into the water—which is a clever move, Len thinks, because what better way to prevent your tears from showing? He thinks that’s the end of that, but then he feels Barry’s warm fingers curl around his wrist, tugging him gently downward. Len follows, pulling the prince closer in return, lips against lips again, drifting together in a prison momentarily given new life as a sanctuary.

They spend the rest of the day lying on the beach together, close enough to the water that Barry can keep his tail wet. As usual, Barry tells him stories of his friends and family while Len regales him in returned with tales of his more daring heists. He’s careful not to mention anything pertaining to his paternal linage, and Barry is kind enough not to ask. The boy seems to understand that there is a part of Len he will never feel comfortable discussing, although Barry, like most humans, has a healthy amount of curiosity for all things sidhe.

“What’s the story behind the winter and the summer sidhe?” he asks as the sun ducks behind the treeline on the other side of the lake.

“They come from one of two ancient families, although most sidhe are connected to some universal element,” Len explains, staring at the puffy clouds overhead, now a fierce pink but darkening rapidly as night descends. “The summer fae have a stronger connection with life and nature and raw energy. Winter fae are quite the opposite. They can’t even really stand the sunlight for too long, although summer sidhe only fare a little better during the day.”

“What about you? You spend pretty much every day in the sun with me.”

“My mother was human,” he says. Even though she died so very long ago, he still remembers her warm eyes and her heart-shaped face, smiling down at him when she held him, the songs she used to sing to him reverberating within his chest. It’s such a cruel turn of fate that one so kind should die so young, as poor as dirt and terrified out of her mind for his well-being. “And I was born in this world. I always felt I had a connection to something intangible, but I was, for all intents and purposes, a human being until I went to the world below.”

“Why did you leave our world?” Barry asks. No doubt he’s heard the cautionary tales all folks tell their children, of how people who go with the sidhe never come home again. This is the closest he’s come to asking Len about the other parental unit in his life.

“Not by choice,” Len says faintly, hoping the boy doesn’t press much farther than that.

Thankfully, he doesn’t. Instead, he rolls over onto his side and presses a kiss against the corner of Len’s mouth. “It’s a full moon tonight,” he says.

Len’s brain stumbles over the non-sequitur, grateful as he is to change topics. “And?”

“It’s been a month. Eobard will be coming tonight.”

They haven’t spoken of Eobard in a long time. Len’s gut clenches at the thought of him returning to torment Barry, to deliver an ultimatum the prince will never accept, even at the cost of his own happiness.

Len knows when Eobard is up and about in the forest—he can _feel_ the sidhe searching for him, though Len has never met the man in person. He knows from what Lise has told him that Eobard was once just another arrogant nobleman in his father’s court, albeit one that was powerful and wise in his own right. He wasn’t there to see Eobard’s failed coup or subsequent banishment, but he knows Leuis made the worst kind of enemy when he failed to execute the other sidhe.

“Can I watch?” Len asks, though he’s not sure why he wants to. In some way, it feel wrong to leave Barry alone after comforting him almost every day for the last month.

There’s an uncomfortable stretch of silence before Barry says, “You’ll have to hide _very_ well. If he sees you, he’ll kill you.”

“He won’t see me.” Concealment, after all, is his forte.

“If you insist,” Barry says, voice tight. Len wonders at first if the kid is angry with him, but then Barry sits up on the beach and Len sees the worry on his brow and the touch of fear in his eyes. As it was when they first met, the prince is terrified of Eobard learning about his illicit visitor. “You should leave now before it gets too dark. And destroy the tracks you leave in the sand.”

Len finally climbs to his feet and grabs his things off the dock. Once he’s got his boots and shirt back on. He grabs a stray branch off the beach and scratches out his footsteps as best he can before lightly stepping back into the forest.

He doesn’t go too far He finds a tree close by and climbs it, one that’s high enough that he can see the beach from his perch. Then he settles in a comfortable position and waits, listening, _feeling_ for the moment Eobard appears.

It takes the better part of an hour for the other sidhe to make his appearance, when night has properly fallen and the moon becomes a pearl suspended in a net of stars. Len can tell from the coppery taste of electricity on the tip of his tongue and the oily sensation that washes over him, a phantom slick clinging to his skin, that Eobard has finally arrived. He feels ill and high-wired, but he’s doesn’t move. Barely breathes, even. With almost feverish curiosity, he wants to see what kind of tribulation the prince has been unjustly subjected to.

There’s the crunch of dried leaves and twigs underfoot as Eobard steps out from the forest, black robes clinging to him like a shadow, his face pale under the moonlight. He makes his way slowly down the beach, stopping just within reach of the water. From the folds of his robes he produces a coat, which he drops unceremoniously onto the wet sand.

Then he waits.

Barry appears before too long, slithering out from under the shadow of the dock. Eobard looks mildly surprised to see him, as if he’s hadn’t expected him so soon. “Did you really miss me that much?” the dark sidhe chuckles. “I know it’s been a while…”

Barry says nothing.

His silence must be a standard response, because Eobard waits no more than a moment before he says, “Where’s your knife?”

“I left it behind,” Barry sighs. “This I swear.”

“Very well.” Eobard reaches back into his robe to produce a red flower, long at the stem, with six large petals. It looks very much like a river lily. He tosses it out onto the water and waits for Barry to grab it before turning away and taking a few steps up the beach.

This is a long worn routine between them, Len thinks, as Barry plucks the petals off the flower and pops them into his mouth. As he begins to chew, he reaches out for the dock, bracing his arm around one of the pillars. He’s barely swallowed before he flinches in pain. He shudders once, then again, more violently.

Something clenches in Len’s chest. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he almost slips from his perch. He can tell Barry is in a tremendous amount of pain, the prince’s eyes now squeezed shut, resting his head against the pillar. His agony seems to go on forever before he gingerly makes his way toward the beach, pulling himself along the dock. Naked, he half-crawls up the wet sand, where he grabs the coat and, sitting, wraps it around his pale, trembling form.

After all sound of movement has ceased, Eobard returns to his prisoner, head tilted curiously to one side as he stares down at the prince. “Will you finally allow me to bestow your hard won freedom upon you, or are you feeling much the same as you did when last we spoke?”

There’s an uncharacteristic darkness in Barry’s eyes, the wary kind of anger usually born of children who’ve never been spared the rod. There’s no question of how much the prince hates this man. “You can tell Zolomon my answer hasn’t changed,” he replies coldly.

“So obstinate…” Eobard murmurs, but there’s a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he turns his gaze out toward the lake. “In a little over two months, the king will finally have the opportunity to speak with you in person. We’ll see if you’re still so eager to deny him to his face.”

Heat prickles at the back of Len’s neck. Two months sounds like a lot of time except he doesn’t know what Mick is up to right now or how soon he plans on getting here. It’s really the one thing Len hates about not being able to operate a job independently.

Relying on the capabilities of other people, of other _unknown_ variables, is such a risky business.

Barry’s gaze falls to the water lapping at his legs, no doubt troubled by this news.

Eobard’s silent for a long, terrible moment, giving the weight of his words a chance to really set in. Then, still staring out across the water, he asks, “Have you been entertaining guests again?”

Even at a distance, Len can see the way Barry stiffens. His own heartrate goes up a tick, a familiar sliver of apprehension worming its way through his veins.

Barry must be accustomed to such piercing questions, because it only takes him a fraction of a second to school his features, turn his pretty little face up at Eobard, and say, “Have you caught anyone lately?”

Eobard’s smile thins as he stares down at the boy, as if he’s had quite enough of Barry’s attitude.

Then he reaches into his robes and draws an obsidian dagger.

Barry eye’s fall on the dark blade and he freezes.

Len freezes too, though only for a second. Silently, he tucks his feet under himself and tries to estimate how long it would take him to jump down from the tree and run to the beach. Certainly not enough time to stop a killing blow. But if he made enough noise, perhaps drew Eobard’s attention away from Barry—

“I can’t die,” Barry says, voice loud and clear, as if speaking for Len’s benefit. Which he probably is, given that Len was _that close_ to giving away his presence.

Eobard does something bizarre then when he laughs and drops the blade beside Barry on the sand. Barry looks baffled, though even more so when Eobard says, “This is for you. And before you ask— _no_ , I’m not afraid of you brandishing my own dagger against me. Nobody can injure me with that.”

Barry only seems marginally satisfied with that answer, brows still knotted in confusion as he picks up the weapon. He takes a moment to watch as the moonlight dances across the dark surface of the blade.

“I’ve spent the last few weeks tracking down and killing Leuis’ men,” Eobard continues, folding his arms across his chest. “Those that I could find, anyway. I’m assuming they must know you’re here.”

Len already knows that isn’t true, but it’s still a relief to hear that Amaya and her soldiers have been kept busy lately. The Apagorev Forest is, as he’d originally gambled, one of the safest places for Len to be right now.

“Why would the King of the Sidhe be looking for me?” Barry asks.

“Why else? As soon you join us, Zolomon can finally challenge his throne.”

“I can’t die,” Barry reminds him yet again, although he doesn’t particularly look as though he wants to give Eobard back his dagger.

“That won’t stop his soldiers from chopping you up and scattering the pieces in the sea,” Eobard provides helpfully. “Or maybe they’ve found your one true love; once they make you human again, they’ll kill you both. That’s usually the way Leuis approaches his problems.”

Unfortunately, that sounds very much like something his father would do.

Unsettled, Barry says nothing.

“I suggest you keep that on hand.” Eobard nods down at the dagger. “Just in case. Or drown anyone who approaches the lake. It’s entirely up to you.”

And with that, the sidhe finally turns away from the water, making his way back into the forest. Len watches him go. Even then, he doesn’t move until the taste of ozone dissipates and the small voice of caution at the back of his mind is no longer screaming at him to remain quiet.

Once the coast is truly clear, Len climbs down from his perch and returns to the beach. Barry is still sitting there in his coat, the obsidian blade lying on the sand beside him. The prince tears his eyes away from the moon when he hears Len creeping up on him.

Predictably, the first thing Barry says is, “Was he telling the truth about there being soldiers in or around the forest?”

“Around the forest, yes,” Len replies, but he says no more than that, shucking off his own coat, satchel, and boots so he can sit beside his companion. He picks up the dagger and inspects the blade, which has been engraved with peculiar runes in the tongue of the sidhe, a language he barely speaks himself.

“And would they really do that to me?” Barry asks, quieter this time.

“They would,” he sighs. “But don’t let that scare you into giving Zolomon what he wants.” He sets the dagger down between them again, and then, because he can’t help himself, allows his gaze to wander the length of Barry’s new appendages.

The boy is leaning back on his hands, his legs stretched out before him. He must realize Len is staring, because he gives Len a coy look and says, “What do you think?”

They’re lovely. Truly. There’s a gap in Barry’s coat that reveals the inside of one creamy thigh, and it takes Len a considerable amount of self control not to just reach out and touch. Instead, he asks, “Do they hurt?”

“When they’re changing, yes. Otherwise, they’re just…really sensitive.”

Barry raises his eyebrows slightly, as if waiting for Len to act on that information.

It’s funny how quickly they’re able to chase the darkness away after Eobard’s visit just by being together. In fact, Len’s previous stress bleeds back into infatuation as he tentatively reaches over to brush his fingertips against Barry’s thigh, right where the hem of his battered coat meets skin. Barry’s leg twitches, but he doesn’t pull away.

“How long will they last?”

“Minutes,” Barry sighs. “And they’re weak, otherwise I’d get a good run in before they change back.”

They’re well toned, probably because Barry’s been exercising the muscles in other ways pretty much daily. Len figures he’d be a good runner once he became human again.

Len scoots a little closer to Barry’s legs and begins trailing his hand down over the boy’s knee. There’s another twitch from Barry before Len continues along his shin, stopping at his ankle. Then he leans down to kiss the sliver of skin on Barry’s thigh just below the hem of the coat. There’s another twitch and a small smile from Barry, who reaches down to cup the side of Len’s face, eyes shining in the darkness as he—winces.

Len sits back up, alarmed. “What is it?”

“The inevitable,” Barry grits out, trembling. “Could—could you get me out into the water? This will be easier out there.”

The kid doesn’t have to ask twice. Len slips one arm under Barry’s knees and the other around the small of Barry’s back, waiting until his companion loops his around Len’s neck before he lifts the boy up. Barry shudders a second time, his whole body seemingly pulled taut as Len wades out into the water.

When it’s up to Len’s waist, Barry unhooks his arms. “This is good.”

Len kneels down enough so that the boy slips smoothly from his arms and into the darkness below. He waits there until Barry surfaces again a minute later, heaving for air, gripping Len’s hand hard enough to bruise.

Len wonders if the transformation is still underway, but then Barry flicks his tail toward the surface and Len realizes it just ended. The kid looks sore and tired, but the worst is behind him now.

“Thank you,” Barry says, squirming his way out of the coat. He hands it to Len. “Eobard will return for that tomorrow, so please leave it on the beach.”

“What, he trusts you with a dagger but not a coat?”

“The coat reminds me of him,” Barry confesses. “So I always return it. No need to break routine now.”

“Fair enough.”

“But really…thank you.” Barry squeezes his hand again, with a little less force this time. “For being there, I mean. It’s hard to deal with him sometimes when I’m alone.”

Len wonders if the kid realizes how brave he is for suffering this long for his country. A lesser man would’ve surrendered long by now.

He doesn’t know how to describe his level of admiration for the boy with words alone, so he ducks his head and kisses Barry gently, hoping the boy just…knows.

And he must, because he’s smiling when Len pulls away. “Good night,” he says, before diving back into the darkness.

Len finds himself standing there in the shallow water for a while, thinking…

Thinking that, yes, this must be love.

~***~

“…I still don’t see it.”

Frustrated, Hartley Rathaway, the once prodigal and now unjustly disgraced apprentice of Harrison Wells, closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I _know_ you can’t see it,” he mutters, “But believe me, _it’s there_.”

The ‘it’ in question is the barrier Eobard Thawne erected up and around the Apagorev Forest. To him, it looks like a pearlescent bubble, semi-translucent and perfectly round. It’s one of the perks of his particular talent, the art of seeing through illusions. It’s the reason how he knew ‘Harrison Wells’ wasn’t who he said he was over a year ago, and coincidentally also why said ‘Harrison Wells’ immediately panicked and framed him for murder.

Hartley is still very, _very_ sore about that.

Honestly, he was hoping he would be able to live out the rest of his days without stumbling across Eobard or his handiwork again, but such is the way of things, he supposes. He’d been on something of a personal quest to find waypoints into the world below when Mick literally stumbled across his campsite four weeks ago and presented him with what was supposed to be solid opportunity for revenge against the bastard. Since Hartley still had a debt to repay with Len, it went without saying he would accept the offer.

And so here he was, trying to convince Mick Rory that they had, in fact, arrived at the correct forest.

“Can we go now?”

Mick shoots him a stern look, as if _he’s_ the one holding them up, then waves his hand forward. “You first.”

Hartley sighs, then boldly takes the first steps across the barrier…

…

Nothing happens.

Granted, Len’s letter stated it was designed only to prevent them from carrying vital information _out_ once they were on the inside. They already have their instructions, so it shouldn’t really impact their work.

“See?” he says, “Easy.”

Satisfied, Mick finally stomps across the barrier himself, muttering something under his breath about prissy magicians. Hartley knows his still upset about the wild goose-chase they concluded a few days ago, but he’s tired of arguing so he steps aside as Mick barrels down the narrow dirt path into the forest proper.

It takes them almost a day to reach the lake.

By then, Hartley is more than just a little fed up with this whole endeavour himself. He’s thirsty and tired and half-terrified he’s contracted some airborne disease from all the glowing spores, but slowly the cloud of spores begins to dissipate and the dirt beneath their feet turns to muck. Then the trees thin out and sunlight pierces through the thick canopy overhead, the first clue they’re closing in on their final destination.

Sure enough, they soon stumbled across a small beach and a rickety old dock. Len simply instructed them to walk until they hit water, so it’s fortuitous that the man in question is there and not at some other obscure pond within the forest. And he’s not alone, either. He’s sitting on the dock, legs dangling over the edge, listening intently to the young man treading water in front of him.

Hartley squints his eyes and tilts his head to one side as a sense of familiarity grips him. It isn’t until Len and his companion turn to face them that Hartley realizes he’s seen said companion before.

While Mick drags his weary feet down the dock to confront Len, Hartley freezes halfway across the murky beach, side-blinded by this revelation. After he’s had a moment to process what he’s seeing, his brain reboots itself, and he weakly says, “Is that really you, Barry?”

Hartley was aware he had a prickly exterior, even as a child, but Barry never really cared. He was a friend of the highest order. Therefore, discovering that Barry was missing—and most likely dead—had been a punch to the gut, especially because he knew the wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing that was Eobard Thawne had something to do with it. It was just the icing on the fucking cake after the whole “murder” business. Seeing him here, alive and well, is like…like…

Well, it’s like the spores maybe _did_ get to his head.

Barry—or not-Barry—is apparently just as surprised to see him. “ _Hartley_?”

The prince swims a little closer to the beach, smiling that trademark too-bright smile of his, like he’s discovering chocolate or puppies for the first time all over again. He doesn’t emerge from the water though, so Hartley takes a step closer, squinting through the sunlight, and—

“What the hell is _that_?” he blurts out, pointing into the water.

Barry settles for a non-verbal answer as he flicks what looks a hell of a lot like a fish tail out of the water, sending a cool spray toward Hartley’s face. He’s still smiling though, like he’s gotten used to people pointing out the rather drastic change in his anatomy.

Hartley plucks his wired spectacles off his face and rubs the lenses dry on a corner of his shirt. He feels angry all of a sudden—not about the water, of course, but by of the wicked way in which Eobard chose to imprison Barry here while an entire kingdom mourned his supposed passing. At least Len’s other instructions finally made sense, although Hartley unfortunately has bad news concerning that.

“Okay… _Odd_ , but okay.” He replaces his spectacles and looks over at the dock, where Mick has stopped midsentence to stare dumbfounded at the literal merman in his midst. Len, as usual, looks about as cool as a cucumber. Which is kind of a blessing, honestly, because Hartley is still having a hard time coming to terms with what is going on here. One of them needs a level head. “I guess now is as good as any time to tell you what’s up.”

Len finally shifts his gaze to Hartley, hands casually resting on his hips, watching as Hartley jogs out onto the dock. Reaching into his satchel, Hartley pulls out Len’s letter and his own little list of ingredients, mind abuzz as he tries to figure out where to start. “Alright. Okay. Yes…I have some good things to tell you and some not-so-good things, too.”

Len tilts his head back just a smidge, a sign that he’s bracing himself for the worst.

“For starters, _you_ —” Hartley points over at Barry, who’s now anxiously floating beside the dock, face pinched with concern “—are hardly the first person who’s suffered this kind of curse. Thankfully, that means people have been experimenting with different cures for a while now.” Barry grins for a moment, until Hartley continues his little spiel: “Sadly, there is no permanent cure. I can change you back for a day at the very most, but that’s about it.”

Barry’s face falls, but Len, as usual, is quick to make the most of a bad situation: “A day is doable. He only needs his legs long enough to leave the forest and cross the field to the river. Once there, he can ride the current back to his kingdom.”

“Do you have a moat?” Mick asks, addressing the prince.

Barry blinks, “Uh, yeah…I mean, as long as I can get to the palace, I don’t really care what state I’m in. A moat’s about as liveable as a lake, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Fine, but that brings me to the next issue,” Hartley hands Len the little recipe he compiled from his research. Patting his satchel, he says, “These are pretty standard ingredients for most potions—except the flower Eobard uses for the transformation. Not only is it rare, but it only grows in Zolomon’s current domain and is heavily guarded. Presently, I can’t make the potion without it.”

“Then we steal it,” Len supplies.

Mick grunts at him in a way Hartley has come to realize is a sign of disapproval.

Sure enough, Len narrows his eyes at his long time partner in crime. “This is hardly the time for cold feet, Mick.”

Of course, Len wasn’t _there_ when he and Mick finally tracked down the goliath of a fort along the eastern coast, within which Zolomon was said to keep all manner of mystical items. They couldn’t even get within 100 metres of the place without stumbling across a troop of foot soldiers. Hartley hasn’t run so hard in all his life.

“I obviously don’t have as much experience as either of you,” Hartley smoothly interjects, “but the fortress is heavily guarded, both by magic and manpower. It’s protected by an impenetrable barrier that extends down to the world below. Even _I_ can tell breaking in isn’t a feasible option.”

That, at least, gives Len pause. Hartley figures he’s finally gotten through to him, but then Len says, “If Eobard can come and go freely, then so can we.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence before Hartley opens his mouth to call him out on his stupidity—but Len holds up a finger for silence and continues. “ _But_ …we can shelf that idea for later. I might know somewhere else we can get the flower.”

“Really?” Hartley and Barry ask simultaneously.

“ _Might_ ,” Len stresses.

“How much?” Hartley asks, “Because I’m going to need at least, like, fifty blossoms.”

“We’ll see.” Len stuffs the recipe into his own satchel and heads down the dock toward the beach. “Come with me.”

Mick, as usual, falls into step behind Len, but Hartley lingers on the dock. “Look, I’m thirsty and tired, and I _really_ need to crash. Do you really need my help right now?”

Len pauses. He glances into the forest and then back at Hartley. “We’ll be back before nightfall. Keep your eyes peeled for Eobard.”

“Will do.”

And with that, his two companions disappear into the trees, off on a minor adventure of their own.

Hips and legs aching from the amount of godawful terrain he’s covered that day alone, Hartley sits down on the dock and pulls an empty flask out of his satchel. Glancing at Barry, he asks, “Is the water safe?”

“Len drinks it,” Barry replies, swimming closer. Despite the situation he’s in, he looks as radiant as ever, a small smile still perched on his lips. “It’s good to see you, although I’m _awfully_ curious how you came to be a go-to man for a thief.”

“Len’s told you he’s a thief, has he?” Hartley murmurs in amusement, unscrewing the lid from his flask and leaning forward to dip it under the water. “He’s usually very sensitive about what information he shares with other people.”

“I can tell—now, how did you end up in his crew?”

Once the air finishes bubbling out of his flask, Hartley lifts it up and takes a swig. The cold water feels good against his parched tongue. It also gives him a moment to get over the sudden weight in his chest as the memory of what Eobard did to him rises from the shadow of his mind.

“Do you remember that trip I went on the last time I saw you?” Hartley asks after he’s had his fill. Back then, he’d received news that his mother was ill. Caitlin Snow loaded him up with every concoction in her repertoire and sent him on his way to help her. It took about a month, but Hartley was able to pull her back from the clutches of death, waiting until he knew she wouldn’t relapse into another fever before heading back to the palace and his studies under Harrison Wells.

“Your mother was dying,” Barry says softly, tentatively. “Did she…?”

“She made it,” he replies. “I didn’t get back to the palace until everyone started panicking over your disappearance. Cisco wanted to search for you in person and I was considering doing the same, but Jesse pulled me aside my first night back and told me something was off about her father.”

“She could probably tell it wasn’t him.”

“Sort of.” Hartley pauses to take another swig of water. “She said he was feverish and had been acting weird the last few days. Caitlin apparently took one look at him and told him he needed bedrest, but he was overemotional and wouldn’t sleep. He’d taken to walking along the moor and the cliffs overlooking the sea at night, like he used to with his late wife.”

Barry frowns in contemplation. “Even using Harrison’s body, wandering the kingdom must still put a strain on him.”

“Considering your mother’s barrier can keep Zolomon out, I’m truly impressed with his abilities.” Begrudgingly, Hartley _did_ have to hand it to the sidhe for pulling this con off for as long as he has. It had to be taxing crossing into the kingdom and using his powers in another person’s body. “I decided to speak with him myself, perhaps ascertain if he had been cursed. So, Jesse and I searched for him in the palace and eventually ended up checking the moor. We finally caught up to her father on the cliff. Except, it wasn’t him. It was this… _blond_ fellow. Foolishly, I asked him who the hell he was, and that pretty much alerted him to the fact that the gig was up.”

“Did he try to kill you?” Barry asked, concerned.

Hartley shakes his head, feeling small and weak again, the same way he felt that very nights. “He said his name was Eobard Thawne. Then there was a flash of light, as if lightning had struck the cliff. Jesse was gone. Just… _gone_. And so was he.” He remembers wondering if he had imagined the whole experience, simply standing there in a daze, trembling as a cold wind blew over the ocean and up the face of the cliff. Then he turned around and retreated to the palace, demanding that the guards take him to the king at once. “I wanted to tell the king what I had seen, but when I was taken up to his chambers, the man was already up there with your father and Clifford Devoe. I just…I lost it. I told them Harrison Wells wasn’t who he appeared to be and that I had just witnessed him deliver Jesse Wells into oblivion out on the moor.”

Barry blinks at him the same way King Henry and Clifford did after he spat out his accusation, but thankfully his blank expression eventually melts into sadness rather than denial or utter confusion. “I take it they didn’t believe you?”

“ ‘Wells’ asked me what I was talking about and where ‘his’ daughter was. Grade A acting, if you ask me. His voice broke and everything. I tried to throw up a cloaking spell to book it out of there because I knew things were about to turn south, but Clifford tackled me and summoned the guards.” Hartley could remember the sinking sensation in his stomach as soon as he realized how crazy he looked. He sips at his water again in an attempt to forget about it, though he can feel his eyes burning with shame and regret. “I was arrested and taken to the ‘Crag’, that clinic on the edge of the city.” It was a prison, really, but only for persons deemed insane. “There were witnesses who saw me go out on the moor with Jesse that night and then return later without her. Somehow, Eobard managed to slip out on the moor unseen and got back much sooner than I did, because nobody believed he had been out there at all that night. Since Jesse was missing, it was just assumed I somehow lost my mind after almost losing my mother and decided to kill one of my best friends.”

He almost chokes up at this last part. Jesse had always been sweet to him, even when he was being a pompous ass, because she was used to dealing with her father when he was in one of his darker moods. Hartley would _never_ harm her, and it hurt to know people thought he was still somehow capable of committing such an atrocity.

Through the veil of tears gathering in his eyes, he sees Barry reach up onto the dock and grab his left hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. “When this is all over, Hartley, I’ll make sure you’re vindicated.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, swallowing hard, still fighting back his tears. “I just wish there was a way to bring Jesse back.”

Barry squeezes his hand again in sympathy.

It takes him a moment to rein his emotions in, but after a while he’s ready to continue his story. “I wasn’t at the Crag for very long before I encountered Len. He broke in one night to extract someone he’d been contracted to release. When he passed my cell, he recognized that I was a court sorcerer and offered to free me as well if I vowed to lend him my services. Since then, I’ve been wandering Zolomon’s territory, keeping mostly to myself unless Len has a job for me. Usually, he just needs my help with Leuis’ soldiers, so this is certainly a deviation from the norm.”

Curiously, Barry asks, “Why does he need your help with Leuis’ soldiers?”

Hartley snorts out a small laugh. “It’s a complicated situation even _I_ don’t fully understand. Mick’s told me Leuis is his father, so I imagine there’s some familial issues there.”

Barry is quiet for a long moment before he softly says, “Despite it all, I’m glad to see you’re still alive.”

“I think Eobard only let me live so he had a scapegoat for Jesse’s murder.” He twists his hand upward to give Barry’s a squeeze in return, then pushes himself up onto his feet. He tightens the lid on his flask and tosses it into his satchel, careful not to squish any of the other plants stored in there. “I’d better start preparing. I can store what I have for the cure until we eventually get the flowers.”

“Thank you,” Barry says, withdrawing back into the water. “I’ve really missed you and the others.”

“You deserve so much better than this,” Hartley replies, glancing down at the Barry’s tail.

The prince has never done anything in all his life to deserve such a dismal fate.

With renewed energy, Hartley returns to the beach and begins collecting dried bits of wood to start a fire.

He hopes to the Forces That Be that Len finds what he’s looking for.

~***~

He’s strong enough to leave now.

But she doesn’t want him to.

Either he senses this, or he’s developed an affinity for her, too, because Cisco never tries to leave when she goes out to collect food or water. She hasn’t expressly told him he has to stay, but she won’t argue with how delighted she feels when she finds him upon her return. Her worries just melt away when she sees his beaming face, as if all that matters in the world is this quiet space that only they occupy, a slice of heaven in the midst of her personal hell.

She sometimes wonders if this is what falling in love feels like.

Then she banishes the thought, because sidhe don’t fall in love.

Her heart still skips a beat when she returns that afternoon to witness Cisco trying to weave a mat. She notices h nicked the corner of his jaw when he clearly tried to shave with his pocket knife earlier, having gotten a little fed up with his beard. He looks so young again and it makes her laugh.

“This is harder than it looks,” he says, mistaking her humor for a small jab his abysmal work. The vines he chose for the task at hand are too thin and keep snapping in half

She sets a clay jug of water down beside the washing bowl in the corner and deposits a basket of carrots and peas in front of him. He likes peas. He told her once they taste like Spring.

“Practice makes perfect,” she supplies, settling down beside him to watch him work. She picks up a carrot and bites off the end. She loves how sweet they are.

“That’s pretty loud,” he chuckles as she munches away in his ear. He turns to glance at her, face close.

Close enough to kiss, in fact.

But he doesn’t kiss her, no matter how many times the opportunity has presented itself so far. She doesn’t know if it’s because he respects her too much to take such liberties, or if he’s still uncertain of whether or not she’s actually inviting him to take the risk.

She _really_ wants him to take that risk…

Her train of thought is interrupted when she feels it—a sudden _pull_ in the very marrow of her bones, Len’s call in the universe. With a sigh, she polishes off her carrot—as noisily as she wants, thank you very much—and pushes herself up onto her feet.

“Where are you going?” Cisco asks.

“My brother is calling.”

Cisco is quiet for a moment. “Is this the same brother that’s helping my friend?”

“One in the same,” she sighs as she ducks outside her quaint little home and wanders deep into the forest.

Sure enough, Len is waiting for her beside his summoning circle. And Mick is with him, which probably means all is going well.

It also probably means he’s here again on behalf of the prince.

“You just _love_ trouble, don’t you, Lenny?”

“Hello, trouble,” he replies, smooth as ice. It’s funny how only he can irritate her and warm her heart in the same breath. “You’re looking healthier than usual.”

Oddly enough, she _feels_ healthier. She knows being aboveground weakens a sidhe, but there might just simply be an extended acclimatization period. That would certainly explain how magic still managed to thrive in the world above.

“Flattery will only get you so far,” she replies. “You’re here because of your lover, aren’t you?”

Mick side-eyes his companion, curious. “You’re in love with the mermaid?”

“He’s not my lover,” is her brother’s pathetic retort, although neither he nor Mick look convinced. “But yes, I have another request.”

“What’s the request?”

Her brother crosses his arms, tilting his head to one side, studying her carefully. She doesn’t know why, but she suddenly feels like a butterfly pinned up to a cork board. “Before I ask,” he drawls, “I would like to know what kind of deal you struck with Eobard Thawne.”

She never told him about her deal with Eobard, but she knows there’s no other explanation he can probably think of for her reluctance to help.

She crosses her own arms in defense, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She can’t deny him, so she says, “I can’t go near the lake. Or offer the prince my direct assistance.”

“In exchange for what?”

“For protection.”

“From who?”

“Zolomon, of course.” That’s not the whole truth, but it should suffice. “I spoke with Eobard a few days ago. Zolomon is coming for the prince in two months. Very soon, he’ll have everything he needs to overthrow our father. If I make any move against him, he’ll kill me, too.”

“He won’t win if the prince is no longer at his disposal.”

“That will just delay the inevitable, and you _know_ it. With Eobard as Zolomon’s agent, he can strike within Henry’s kingdom at any time.”

“Lise,” Len says sternly, “that’s a remarkably defeatist attitude. Whatever happens, you know we can weather it together.”

There’s a part of her that so desperately wants to believe him. But he doesn’t _really_ know what goes on below, or how many enemies she has creeping in the shadows. She’s a small fish in a very big pond.

The sudden silence between them stretches for an uncomfortably long moment before Mick gets fed up and shoves his hand into Len’s satchel. Len looks mildly affronted as Mick whips out a piece of paper and hands it to Lise. Then he leans over her shoulder to point out the ancient name of a one of many aquatic plants on the list.

“I want fifty of these flowers,” he says.

“Why?” she asks, although she can probably guess. The flower in question is part of the plant the merfolk use for their magic.

“They’re for my girlfriend.”

Lise side-eyes him, disappointed by his mediocre feint. “You don’t have a girlfriend, Mick.”

“Says who?” he grumbles.

Technically, she doesn’t actually know if he has a girlfriend or not. From what Len has told her, he’s spent the better part of his life running and killing things and didn’t have time to settle down. Now, he’s pretty much a grouchy old home-body when Len isn’t around to play with him. Even so…love was often found in the most peculiar places and under the most extraordinary circumstances.

She glances over at her brother again, trying to read his steely expression. He’s good at hiding his true emotions, but he can see the silver of worry in the corners of his eyes and lips, the pain he’s constantly trying to keep bottled up inside. Whether or not he loves this boy, he’s found something in Bartholomew’s companionship that he hasn’t been able to find anywhere else. In fact, he might not ever find it again.

For a moment, she thinks of Cisco and the indescribable thing she’s found with him. If—or when?—they two part, she knows it’ll kill whatever happiness has been brewing inside her. She also thinks of Cisco’s love for his friend, of the devotion that propelled him to leave the sanctuary of his kingdom at the risk of his life just to save this same friend from whatever forces are holding him…

She needs to meet this Prince Bartholomew someday.

Exasperated, she shoves the list into Mick’s chest. “Tell your ‘girlfriend’ he’s a lucky man to be loved by so many,” she mutters as she turns away and retreats back into her forest.

In her wake, flowers bloom in little patches, dozens upon dozens of lilies, long at the stem, with six large, red petals.

Just before she’s out of earshot, she hears Len softly ask, “Do you really have a girlfriend?”

For some reason, she can’t help but smile.

~***~

While Hartley works, Barry drifts down to the rocky bottom of the lake beside the dock and floats just above the sediment, staring up into the sky. As per usual, he’s thinking of Len.

But not in the way he normally does.

He’s more puzzled than anything, wondering why the man neglected to tell him he was the son of King Leuis. At least, he’s _assuming_ that’s the ‘Leuis’ Hartley was referring to. Barry doesn’t know of any other Leuis that commands an army, large or small. It just…feels like an awfully big secret to keep considering how much Barry has already shared with Len about his own life. Then again, Barry’s life isn’t really that much of a secret. Back home, everyone already knew who he was and what he did all hours of the day.

It takes him a while, but he finally resolves not to dwell on the matter anymore. Len has gone above and beyond to help him. Kept him sane most days, in fact. Barry hasn’t felt as though he really stood a chance against Zolomon until Len came along. He shouldn’t judge his companion.

Len deserves nothing less than his utmost gratitude.

Doubt still weighs heavily at the back of his mind though as the sky darkens. He continues floating there until a small rock plummets through the water, zipping past his face. Startled, Barry darts toward the surface, hoping another rock doesn’t smack him on the way up.

“ _Mick_ ,” he hears Len growl as soon as he’s up. “Don’t be rude. You should go in and get him.”

“I can’t swim,” the other man grunts in return, and then immediately to Barry: “Sorry, kid.”

“It’s no problem,” Barry replies, swimming a little closer. His heart skips a beat when he sees that each man is sitting on a log beside Hartley’s small fire, plucking the petals off the heap of red flowers on the ground between them. “Is that…?”

Len looks up at him, lips quirked in a mischievous smile. “Your ticket out of here, Scarlet.”

He feels lightheaded all of sudden. Only vaguely aware of he’s doing, he swims over to the dock and loops his arm around a pillar for support. He was hoping, of course, that Len’s ‘Plan A’ would work, but to suddenly see how close at hand his salvation is, he just…he can’t stop thinking of his father or his friends or his _home_ —all of it finally within his grasp again.

“Is he gonna faint?” Mick grumbles.

Len abandons his work and walks down the length of the dock, crouching above Barry to reach down and scratch him affectionately behind the ear. Softly, he says, “Are you going to be alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says, glancing up at the other man. Still dazed, Barry grabs Len’s hand and presses it against the side of his face. “You feel warm.”

There’s a flicker of shock behind Len’s eyes. They don’t look as silvery anymore either, although Barry picked up on that weeks ago. They’re bluer somehow, even in the diminishing light.

More human than sidhe.

“I’m almost done,” Hartley declares from his spot by the fire, stirring some concoction in a flimsy metal plate suspended by branches over the flame. “Mick, I need more of those petals.”

Mick reaches over to drop the small bundle on his lap into the mix and then picks up the last flower, tossing its petals in as well as he plucks the off.

“Fair warning,” Harley continues, “I’ve never done this before, so I have no idea what to expect. You’re supposed to change immediately. I don’t suppose someone would like to lend you a coat once you shed your tail…”

Len is already heading back toward the beach, pulling off his satchel and coat. “He can have mine. Mick, you and I are going to take turns supporting him while he walks.”

“Does he need boots?” Mick inquires.

“We’ll wrap his feet,” Hartley supplies, pointing to his own satchel on the ground between them. “I have a scarf in there. Tear it in half—and pass me an empty vial. There’s a few tucked away at the bottom.”

Mick drops the empty stem in his hand to rummage through the satchel. He tosses Hartley a small vial, then pulls out a dark blue scarf, tearing it effortlessly in half.

Hartley plucks the cork out of the vial with his teeth and then gingerly tips the metal plate over it with a stick. He quickly pours the liquid into the vial, shoves the cork back on, and tosses it haphazardly to Len.

Len actually misses the catch. The vial lands in the sand by his feet. “Careful,” he snaps.

“It’s hot.” Hartley mutters. “Give it a second to cool.”

Sighing, Len shakes his hand and crouches down to pick it up, rolling it between his hands, cooling it on his own. “It _is_ hot,” he murmurs curiously.

He rises to his feet.

Between one second and the next, Barry is blinded by a crack of light so bright it burns his eyes. He rubs at them with his fists, dazed and confused, heart beating madly inside his chest. It takes a while, but eventually he can see again, blinking away the specks of color that dance across his vision as he tries to focus on his companions. Unfortunately, Mick and Hartley are no longer there. Just Len and himself.

And Eobard.

Barry’s blood runs cold at the sight of him; remarkably, Eobard doesn’t appear to be paying much attention to either of them. Instead, he’s staring solemnly out at the lake, brow furrowed in thought.

Though he’s terrified of what he might see, Barry follows his line of regard to the black wisps of smoke weaving in and around themselves, hovering low over the centre of the lake. Barry doesn’t understand what he’s looking at until Eobard says, “If I recall correctly, the large one can’t swim, can he?”

As if on cue, two dark silhouettes suddenly plummet the short distance from the dark cloud into the lake.

Barry’s head snaps back around. He locks eyes briefly with Len, who faintly says, “ _Go_ ,” before Barry dives under the water and darts quickly toward the centre of the lake.

It’s harder to see underwater at night, and he’s afraid he’s somehow going to veer off course and miss his companions completely. He almost does when a cloud passes in front of the moon, obscuring the already minimal amount of light he has to work with. But then the cloud passes, and he catches sight of movement in the corner of his eye.

Mick has sunk about five feet below the surface, flailing his arms feebly in a last-ditch attempt to reach the surface. Barry can tell he’s reached his limit though when a sudden plume of bubbles escapes his mouth.

Barry dashes over to him before he can inhale water, grabbing either side of Mick’s face, uncaring of the way one of Mick’s fists comes crashing down on his shoulder as he quickly pulls the man in for a kiss.

Mick flails for another second or two before he goes completely still. Barry opens his eyes and pulls his head back, hoping he wasn’t too late. Fortunately, Mick is blinking at him kind of dumbly, still somewhat sinking but no longer terrified.

Barry grabs a hold of Mick’s wrist and tries dragging him upward. But even with Mick kicking his feet in assistance, they’re getting nowhere fast. Finally, Barry decides to reverse their direction. Mick panics again as they suddenly plummet toward the bottom of the lake but calms down again once his feet hit something solid. Barry signals at him with a raised finger to wait there and then darts back to the surface where he can see Hartley treading water.

He startles a shout out of Hartley as he emerges.

“Calm down,” Barry says. “You’re going to be alright.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Hartley asks, voice strained, glancing down into the water.

“He’s fine,” Barry assure him. “In fact, I need you to guide him to the far shore.”

Hartley snaps his eyes up at Barry again. “How the hell am I supposed to do that? I can’t even see him.”

“I’m going to take you to him. You’ll be able to breathe down there, but only if you don’t surface again until you reach the shore.”

Hartley stares at him blankly for a moment. “Al-alright?”

“Good. And try to get him to walk slowly. If he kicks up too much sediment, he won’t be able to see at all.”

He nods, but still looks hesitant. “It’s awfully dark down there.”

“I know,” Barry replies.

He knows all too well.

Before Hartley’s nerves get the better of him, Barry grabs him by the hands and ducks back under the water, dragging his friend bodily with him. Hartley freaks out and kicks back for a moment but goes absolutely still when Barry cups his face and kisses him.

As with Len and Mick, Hartley relaxes completely at his touch. Once he’s settled, Barry first points down to Mick and then behind Hartley to orient him toward the shore opposite Eobard. If they’re smart, they’ll make a run for it once they reach land.

After Hartley nods at him in understanding, Barry turns away and races back to the dock.

He hopes to the Powers That Be that he’s not too late to help Len.

~***~

The second Barry’s head ducks below the surface, Len makes his move.

He’s a little out of practice when it comes to offensive attacks, but he can feel the energy in the water reaching out to him as he reaches back to it in return. With the flick of the wrist, water droplets soar up from the mild surf and solidify into small slivers of ice as they cut through the air, a wall of projectiles headed directly for Eobard.

But Eobard barely moves.

He lifts the edge of his cloak to protect his face and that’s about it. The ice hits him in tiny little punts. In fact, it’s not ice so much as water, and Eobard consequential looks more annoyed than in any substantial amount of pain.

Len doesn’t know what’s happening…

But he still isn’t without his tricks. He has his falchion and a small throwing knife concealed in his right boot. If he moves quickly, he can—

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Eobard says, flicking the edge of his cloak down and away, shaking the cloth a little in the hope of dislodging some of the excess water. “This is what happens to half-blood sidhe who don’t have the privilege of being born in the world below. You’re not connected enough to our world to retain your elemental abilities. If you stay away long enough, you eventually become more human again.”

A part of Len knows what Eobard says is true. He knows he never shared any of his father’s talents until he was dragged down into the world below and that he often felt stronger whenever he snuck through a waypoint. As a child, he was entirely human. He didn’t have to worry about keeping any promises or avoiding fire and iron. He could spend days on end in the sun without feeling the least bit drained…

Lately, he’s beginning to feel that way again.

More _human_.

“Your unique abilities, on the other hand, are yours to keep,” Eobard continues, smiling at him in a strained sort of way. “And they’re a real pain in the ass, let me tell you. I could only watch you from afar to keep out of your range. Thank you for making my job that much harder.”

As much of a relief it would normally be to learn he wasn’t losing his powers indefinitely, Len knows his natural stealth isn’t going to help him now, not when he was so far from cover.

Len doesn’t say anything, trying to block out Eobard’s prattle as he mentally braces himself to crouch down, pull out his dagger, and throw it in the next couple of seconds. It’s a steel blade. Even if it’s a horrible shot, any kind of connection could be fatal.

“Relax,” Eobard laughs, glancing down at Len’s right foot, at the boot housing his knife. Len wonders what part of his stance is giving away his intentions. “I have a proposition for you.”

“No deal,” Len bites back.

“Even if it helps your sister?”

That’s a pretty broad statement…but it still gives Len pause.

He doesn’t make hasty decisions when it comes to her.

Knowing he has Len’s undivided attention, Eobard says, “She’s been dragging her feet about cutting her own deal with Zolomon. So long, in fact, it’s beginning to get on his nerves. _However_ , he’s on the last stretch of his journey and feeling benevolent. If you pledge your allegiance to him and leave the Apagorev forever, he’ll forgive your sister for her transgressions and protect you both from your father. In fact, you can tag along to watch Leuis die, if you’d like. I’m sure that would feel cathartic.”

There’s a part of Len that would love nothing more than to see his father’s head on a spike. He knows Lise shares his sentiments. After a small eternity of torment, neither one of them would hesitate to wet their hands with his blood.

He entertains the idea for a moment, the unique opportunity to throw his lot in with someone who would rain fire and brimstone upon his father in an unholy act of retribution. However, in order to do that, Zolomon needs _Barry_ , and thinking of Barry has the usual effect of stomping out all the dark memories of Len’s father in a way that feels suspiciously like an underhanded victory. Less of the hassle for all of the reward, really.

Len can’t betray Barry.

“No deal,” he says again, crouching down to grab his dagger.

It flies from his hand in a heartbeat. In fact, its estimated trajectory is straight for Eobard’s blackened heart—and yet he misses.

One second Eobard is there and the next he’s gone, replaced by a streak of red light winding itself around Len, crackling with raw energy and setting the bits of dry wood on the beach on _fire_ , which Len hates about as equally as any man or sidhe, at least at this range.

Len’s already sweating from the heat, and he doesn’t see an opening in the ring of fire through which to escape. He can’t even see Eobard or his streak of lightning anymore, heart hammering in his chest as he tries to figure a way out here. Truth be told, there _is_ no way out of here.

He’s going to burn.

Not unless he does something quick.

But there’s really only one thing he _can_ do, and he hates being pressured into doing it. He doesn’t know how to use the waypoints in this area and the last thing he wants is to get lost in the world below. Leuis would just love that, of course, to have Len come to him. It would _really_ feed into his already over-inflated ego.

Unfortunately, Len’s hands are tied. He stays crouched down low and closes his eyes, every inch of his skin prickling painfully from the heat. He searches for the sensation inside him, that _pull_ to a place beyond his imagination, and feels it reaching back for him with startling ease. Then the sand is suddenly giving way beneath his feet, swallowing him whole as he’s dragged down into the world below.

There’s pressure and darkness all around him as forces beyond his control fold him lovingly into the earth. It feels like forever before he drops down onto solid ground, head spinning as he staggers to his feet, brushing the excess dirt from his hair and eyes. Somehow, Lise is able to do this with more finesse. There is never so much as a hair out of place on her head whenever she travelled between worlds.

As soon as he opens his eyes, he regrets his decision to retreat immediately.

Amaya is standing there in front of him. Behind her are twenty or so soldiers; a glance over his shoulder reveals there’s another twenty or so soldiers crammed into the tunnel behind him.

He’s been set up.

“Are you ready to surrender?” Amaya asks quietly.

“I’ll take a pass,” Len mutters.

Then something heavy and hard connects with the back of his head, sending him spiralling down into an entirely different kind of darkness.

~***~

By the time Barry surfaces again, the beach is on fire.

The only person in sight is Eobard Thawne.

He’s standing at the very edge of the dock, which is ironically the only thing that isn’t consumed by flames, possibly because he charmed it before using it as a retreat. Barry’s concerned about Len’s absence, but his companion could’ve chosen to retreat into the forest. Barry tries not to dwell too much on the other possibility as he swims up behind Eobard and grabs the man’s left ankle from behind, yanking _hard_ , hoping he—

“That’s quite enough, Bartholomew,” Eobard hisses, pivoting around sharply and reaching down for him, as if he’d been expecting Barry’s underhanded tactic. He grabs Barry by the arm just below the elbow and pulls him bodily onto the dock. Barry thrashes, of course, but this does him little good.

“Where is he!” Barry snaps. Even lying flat on his back, completely unarmed, he can think of little more than how badly he wants to hurt Eobard.

“I chased that cretin back to the world below,” Eobard mutters. “You’re welcome.”

Barry doesn’t understand what he means by that. He pauses a moment, bracing himself, and then tries to throw himself over the edge of the dock.

Eobard grabs him by the forearms, holding fast when Barry tries to jerk away from him. He doesn’t let go until Barry is still again, releasing Barry’s arms but keeping his hands at the ready in case Barry tries to slip away again. “I warned you about Leuis and his ilk,” Eobard growls, “did I not?”

“He was trying to help me, and you _know_ that,” Barry seethes, already feeling the painful tremor in his gut that only comes when he’s completely out of water.

“He’s the son of King Leuis,” Eobard hisses in return. “He was going to collect you for his father and then kill you. What other possible reason could he have to secret you away from here?”

There’s an unsettling amount of truth to what he says, enough to shock Barry into silence. He learned from Hartley not too long ago that Len was the son of the king, and he already had Len’s own admission that Leuis and his people wanted him dead.

But Barry _knows_ Len…knows his warmth and kindness. Knows his hurt too, the pain behind his eyes when he’s lost in thought. Barry refuses to believe that the man who’s been his constant companion this last month has any intention of killing him.

His abdominal tremors intensify. Barry is also beginning to feel a little too hot from the fire, even from a distance, but he’s still pinned there by Eobard’s hands and his condescending smile.

“You didn’t think he was in love with you, did you?” Eobard shakes his head slowly, as if admonishing Barry for having such juvenile delusions. His judgement shouldn’t sting, but it does. “If that were true, you would’ve changed back by now.”

“He wouldn’t betray me,” Barry says, as feeble as that retort sounds to his own ears.

“Of course he would, you ignorant boy. Here—” he reaches over to grab Len’s satchel, the one thing of Len’s he decided to preserve in the accident, and drops it beside Barry’s head. “I’ve already had a look, but I swear to you as a sidhe that I haven’t added or removed anything from his collection.”

Finally, Barry hesitates.

Sidhe can’t lie when they ‘swear’ or make an oath, so whatever lies inside Len’s bag must be quite damning, at least by Eobard’s standards. And Eobard’s standards were already at the far end of scale. He practically straddled the line of the unforgiveable.

Water and sweat drip down Barry’s face as he finally throws back the flap of Len’s satchel, trying to ignore the way another spasm wracks his body. There are half a dozen small pouches tucked into the inner pockets, each of which Barry already knows contain precious gems. There are also rolled up maps, small throwing knives, a flask for water, dried fruit and meat, a flimsy journal with a broken spine, a pocket book—a pocket book made of red leather and twine, not too dissimilar from the kind Cisco usually makes in his spare time.

The bottom of Barry’s world falls out as he flips through the first few pages, eyes skimming the familiar chicken-scratch and elegant drawings of roots and flowers and leaves.

He’s too afraid to ask how Len came across the book.

Never one to miss an opportunity to push Barry toward an answer he so desperately wants to avoid, Eobard kneels down beside Barry and coldly says, “Cisco Ramon is dead. This I swear to you.”

“No,” Barry says, voice tight, struggling to push out that miserable syllable. He closes the book because the lines are beginning to blur together. Lying there on the dock, hot and weak and in agony, he feels as though a piece of his heart has been torn to shreds. Cisco was like a brother to him—Cisco _is_ a brother to him.

He can’t be dead.

“I would show you his body as proof, but even I don’t know what they did with it.” Eobard reaches over to close the flap on Len’s satchel. Barry tries to push himself away from Eobard when he then reaches for the book, but the sidhe tears it from Barry’s hand with ease, given how much pain Barry is in right now. Then he straightens back to his full height, satchel hanging over his left shoulder, and says, “Let this be a lesson to you, your highness. You’re not helping anyone by being obstinate. In fact, I’d almost say you’re doing more harm than good by refusing the veritable olive branch King Zolomon is offering to you. For the sake of your other friends and family, the next time we speak, your answer had better be _yes_.”

And with that, Eobard plants his boot against Barry’s shoulder and shoves him over the edge of the dock.

Barry hits the water in a cold shock, innards still spasming in pain as he sinks to the bottom. Above him he can still see the eerie glow of the fire, now accompanied by a brief flash of light, not too unlike what he saw before when Eobard first appeared. He has a feeling he is alone again—well and truly alone, lost in a foreign land with no living soul to comfort him.

He lies against the rocks in a daze, thinking of Len and Cisco and his shattered hope, crushed underfoot like a weed.

He doesn’t know what the point of resisting is anymore.

~***~

She smells smoke.

Lise pauses before her corn stalks and stares up at the starry heavens. The sky is glowing faintly in the east, which she knows is the direction of the lake. And her brother.

What in the name of their ancestors has her brother done _now_?

Lise tries not to panic, although she doesn’t have much reason _not_ to. If there’s a fire, there’s nothing she can do to stop or contain it. In fact, if it continues to spread, she’ll have no choice but to leave the sanctuary of the forest. Not that she can afford to stay anymore. Whatever Len has done, Eobard is bound to get wind of it soon, and then it will only be a matter of time before he realizes she’s been dancing around the technicalities of her oath to him.

Lise drops her small basket of corn and turns to run. She’ll have to grab Cisco. She doesn’t know where they’ll go. They’ll have to keep on the move and—

Lise doesn’t immediately see Eobard standing just outside the perimeter of her garden until she’s turned around. She stops dead in her tracks when she does, heart racing as she slowly takes a step closer to him. There’s a voice in her head screaming at her to keeps her distance, but she knows better than to refuse him; better than to run.

Much like Zolomon, Eobard can move faster than the human eye can see.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Eobard says once he knows he has her undivided attention. His voice is oddly soft but still strained. He stays right where he is, watching her, like a viper coiled in the grass.

She doesn’t know if he’s aware of everything she’s been up to or if he’s waiting for her to spill the finer details of her betrayal. She tests the water by asking, “Should I be afraid of you?”

“Are you?”

“With an opener like that, it’s hard not to be.”

There’s a sliver of a smile on his face, a cut of red in the darkness. She can’t tell if he’s angry or amused.

The tension is suffocating her.

“I know about the flowers,” Eobard says, breaking it.

Though she’s been dreading this moment for quite some time, she feels oddly relieved that her secret is finally out. She doesn’t have to step lightly beneath the figurative blade hanging over her head anymore because it is already falling toward her and there’s nothing she can do to stop it.

Even so, she shies away from the absolute truth. “They were for my brother,” she admits.

“I know,” Eobard replies coolly, “which is why I punished him instead.”

Terror seizes her then in such a way that she can hardly draw breath.

Len often courted danger as if that was his true calling in life, but he usually had the upper hand. Eobard, however, was much older and wiser and crueler than her brother. Eobard always knew where to bury his knife and how to maximize pain. A fight between them could really only end one way.

“What did you do to him?” Lise asks, voice weak, diaphragm quivering in fear. The crushing sensation inside her chest is unlike anything she’s experience before.

“I delivered him to his enemies,” Eobard hisses, finally stepping forward out of the shadows and into the moonlight. He looks incensed. “You stupid girl…I didn’t want to hurt either of you, but you just wouldn’t _listen_. I tried _so_ hard to show Zolomon the merits of protecting you. Why did you have to oppose me at every turn?”

“Zolomon isn’t any better than Leuis!” she snaps, the corners of her eyes brimming with tears. “He will slaughter everyone you left behind down there, Eobard. He’ll clear us out and replace our kingdom with all the miscreants who followed his parents to the world above.”

“ _All_ sidhe are miscreants,” Eobard seethes, though with considerably less energy, as if this is a disappointing fact of life he himself has had a hard time coming to terms with. “I foolishly thought that with you at the helm, things would be better again. You…you were always so different.”

She feels small all of a sudden, like a little girl meeting Eobard for the first time again. He was different, too. Instead of looking down at her with dissatisfaction or disgust like all the other members of her father’s court, he’d smiled at her and told her she was the spitting image of her mother. 

“If you didn’t let your fear rule you, you would be unstoppable,” Eobard continues. “I know you’re not the strongest, but you’re cunning. You of all people deserved to be Queen.”

But she’s always known she would never be Queen. While her father was untouchable, she was not.

There was nothing more to it than that.

They fall silent then as Lise’s attention turns back to her brother. Len had many enemies, but she somehow knows Eobard’s thrown her brother to the real dog, the raving mongrel beneath their feet. Delivering Len to her father’s minions is the worst thing anyone could do to her brother.

Knowing she has nothing left to say in her defence, Eobard retreats back into the shadows. “Godspeed, Lise,” he says. “I hope for your sake Zolomon never catches up to you.”

She turns away from him, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. In the east, she can feel the inferno growing, inching its way closer to her ruined sanctuary.

Mind awhirl with fear and grief, she takes off to gather Cisco.

~***~

Eobard never felt much connected to his own people.

He was known primarily for his wisdom when James Zolomon inherited the throne. He was truly surprised with how quickly everyone turned against each other once James decided to emphasize the importance of power over compassion. Fear, greed, anger—the worst of their people was manifested in James, who drew everyone closer to his black flame, pulling them down into the dirt, revealing them to be the animals he believed they were. Even Eobard. In fact, by the time Leuis was mustering the courage to pull his little coup, Eobard was no longer seen as wise by his people so much as ‘cunning’, because even though he hated the game James was playing, he’d be damned if he let anyone get the better of him.

He was a survivor, through and through.

Then one day, Leuis was suddenly sitting on the throne. Eobard hadn’t even realized Zolomon was overthrown until everything was said and done. There was an adjustment period while Leuis fulfilled whatever promises he made to the people who supported him in his endeavour, but it wasn’t long before Leuis revealed he had no intention of really changing the way James ran the kingdom. He was content with the backstabbing and the petty squabbles, with punishing people for the slightest crimes. Eobard figures he wasn’t the only person who hoped the old bastard would choke to death on his tongue in his sleep, heirless and alone, leaving the sidhe free to try a new method of government.

The news that Leuis finally had a son was an unpleasant affair, but the fact that the boy was half human and living blissfully unaware of his heritage in the world above meant he was hardly a threat. Leuis didn’t have to recognize an illegitimate child, which he wisely chose not to. The boy would’ve been killed immediately otherwise.

Then Lise came along, and it was upon her that all her father’s troubles were heaped. She was legitimate and wholly sidhe and _nothing_ like her father. Not as strong as her mother either, unfortunately, which is how Eobard came to be enlisted as her mentor. He taught her everything he possibly could—not because he felt obligated, but because Lise reminded him very much of the human children of the world above, who were peaceful and sweet and kind. And she hated her father, which was alright in his books, but which unfortunately didn’t make her any more popular with the people who wanted to slit her throat. She was the real threat to anyone who wanted to take the throne.

By the time Leonard was finally dragged down to his father’s realm as a young man, it was a well-known fact that Lise would never become more powerful than she already was. Eobard suspected she _could_ , but being beaten and ridiculed almost daily by her own father wasn’t doing her any favors. Eobard knew that the boy was Leuis’ backup plan if only he could get Leonard whipped into shape, and so it was only a manner of time before Leuis let his protection of his daughter slip long enough to give some malcontent upstart the opportunity to snuff her out for good.

It was shortly before Leonard’s introduction to the world before that Eobard decided he’d had enough of all the madness. He and his closest confidants tried to break the enchantment Aloysius cast over the throne in the hopes of ending Leuis’ reign prematurely, but their plan backfired spectacularly. Eobard already had one foot in the grave when he fled to the world above. He can’t even remember what he said to James once he was dragged before the former king, only that Zolomon was willing to care for him and protect him if Eobard pledged his services to him. Agreeing to serve the old tyrant again was a truly bitter pill to swallow, but swallow it he must.

Without Zolomon, he was as good as dead.

It was therefore quite amusing to watch Hunter Zolomon slay his father in broad daylight with his own sword before he promised to let Eobard kill Leuis himself if he vowed to serve Hunter the way Eobard had already served his father.

Yet again, Eobard knew he was trading one demon for another, but by then he no longer cared. The sidhe were going to fight themselves to the point of extinction by this point. It was inevitable.

Good riddance to them all.

“That went about as well as expected,” Eobard sighs as he enters Zolomon’s chamber. It’s freezing inside, but that’s to be expected with the balcony doors flung wide open. Zolomon is standing outside, his long, black cloak hanging off his shoulders, gently billowing in the wind, as he stares out across the quiet mountainside. The snowy landscape glows in the moonlight, like the hallowed landscape of a half forgotten dream.

Earlier that day, as with most days this month, they watched Barry through the mirror, content to hold their peace until Len and his companion returned with the flowers. Eobard then left Zolomon to continue watching the scene unfold from afar as he put an end to the prince’s wild bid for freedom.

Now, Eobard drops Leonard’s satchel on Zolomon’s desk in the corner so that the king can take whatever trophies he wants from their enemy’s small collection. He also places the small vial beside it, the one containing Hartley’s potion. He’s surprised the boy knew what he was doing. Clearly, the real Harrison Wells was a better teacher than Eobard ever gave him credit for.

“The book was a nice touch,” Zolomon replies, still staring out at the mountain. The air is cold and still tonight. It feels quite refreshing after having to deal with that inferno.

Eobard didn’t realize Leonard somehow found Cisco’s book until he went snooping through the satchel. He was admittedly confused as to why Barry and his companion never spoke of Cisco when Leonard already had the boy’s book in his possession, and so Eobard could only assume Barry _didn’t_ know his companion had the book in his possession. It was a fortunate twist of fate, really, one that worked remarkably well in their favor.

They couldn’t afford for the prince to fall in love with some… _thief_ this late in the game.

“It was,” Eobard hums in agreement, stepping out onto the balcony to join the king. He produces said book from the inner pocket of his cloak and rubs his index finger along the broken spine. Seeing it touches something inside of him in a way that is somewhat disconcerting.

“Do you miss him?”

Eobard glances over at his master. “Hm?”

“Your student,” Zolomon says. Then, after a thought: “‘ _His’_ student, I suppose.”

“Cisco?” Eobard asks. “No. Of course not.”

Zolomon keeps his gaze focused on the mountain, but Eobard can feel the judgment in his silence. He thinks Eobard is letting this foreign body get the better of him again, that it’s trying to prove to him that he has a heart. But that will never happen

Whatever he might have had of a heart shriveled up long again.

It still stings, though, when he tosses the book over the railing with a flick of the wrist, discarding the last words of a brilliant young man.

“Good,” Zolomon says, which is as close as he’ll ever get to voicing his approval. “The end is in sight, Eobard. You won’t be chained to that body for much longer. I promise.”

Eobard nods his appreciation but says nothing more. He’s been in this form for so long, he’s beginning to have trouble distinguishing between his own thoughts and feelings and those of his host. He often dwells on memories that aren’t his and mourns for people he hardly knows. Wearing this skin has been the heaviest burden he’s ever carried.

But soon, he’ll be free again.

Even if he doesn’t know what exactly that freedom will detail.


	2. Chapter 2

 

He retreats into the darkest recesses of his mind, and, for a while, he ceases to exist.

If he needed to eat to survive, he probably would’ve died long before now, because when Barry curls up into a ball in his little refuge at the bottom of the lake, nothing can compel him to move. There _is_ nothing left to compel him to move. The man who once touched his heart with the too-sweet sting of hope and love now roamed his memories like a dark spectre. Barry hates him and misses him in equal measure. He just wishes he knew which was the greater cause of his agony.

Days fly by and following the bitterness of loss and betrayal comes a quick succession of self-depreciating thoughts, none of which are unwarranted or untrue. Everyone fancied him a suitable heir to the throne for his kindness and generosity, but Barry knows he’s too naïve to judge the integrity of his fellow man. What’s worse, Len is hardly the first person to take advantage of his youth and desperation. He’s a willing victim of his own devices, fooled by the softest voices and the sweetest gestures. Even Eobard didn’t have to try very hard to lure him out here. Barry is unworthy of his crown.

He sleeps for what feels like ages until a familiar pressure hooks around his spine, enticing him to return to shore. He knows it’s Eobard before he even sees him, the sidhe’s pale face glowing in the moonlight. Behind him lies the forest, the dark and twisted branches of tortured trees frozen in a rictus scramble for the stars, stripped of their leaves and their lives in one blazing fell swoop. The lake had been black with ash the first few days following the disaster and is still murky with soot. Even the once white beach is now sullied beyond recognition.

One look at Eobard and Barry almost breaks. There’s a heaviness in his heart that can’t compare to anything else he’s ever experienced before. He never thought anything could bring him so low.

He’s weak. So _very_ weak…

“Barry?” Eobard says, the sound of his voice almost imperceptible over the howl of the wind. It’s colder than it was a month ago, another summer of Barry's life coming to its close. “Will you surrender?”

Barry’s eyes burn. His throat constricts. He’s so tired. What he wouldn’t do for a moment of reprieve, somewhere warm and dry and in good, genuine company.

“No,” he says, choking on the word, because even at his lowest he can remember his last memory of his mother, his head resting against her chest, her fingers carding through his hair. She pressed her lips against the crown of his hair and told him he was beautiful and brave and never failed to make her proud.

No matter how far he falls, he will always try his utmost to make her proud.

Eobard closes his eyes. He says nothing, at first. Barry is expecting some form of punishment, but Eobard simply opens his eyes again and tosses a red flower into the water. “You’re a curious creature,” are his parting words as he turns from the lake and retreats into the shadows

It takes considerable effort not to sink back into the lake, but he finally takes the flower, eats the petals, and crawls out onto the beach in his human form. There he lies, broken and afraid, crying naked under the scrutiny of the stars.

He knows his efforts are for nothing.

~***~

He retreats into the darkest recesses of his mind, and, for a while, he ceases to exist.

He doesn’t know what sustains him in that little hole in the ground they call a cell. It’s an oubliette, simply four stone walls that extend twenty feet upward toward a bronze grate. He has been lying on a bed of straw for what feels like ages, staring up through that grate at a faint blue light overhead. It is never dark here; nor is it ever particularly bright. He’s suspended in the twilight of a never-ending nightmare, only cognizant of the fact that he’s been subjected to some horrendous ritual after he’s seemingly returned to his cell, conscious of a lingering pain in every bone in his body. He remembers snippets of struggling—kicking, biting, _squeezing_ someone’s throat in the cold, _cold_ vice of his hands, but the haze only comes to an end when he begins to remember Barry.

He remembers being suspended with Barry in a warm embrace, their mouths slotted neatly together, the water glowing in the midday sun. There was no pain then. No confusion either. He wanted something— _someone_ in a way he had never wanted anyone else before, and, in that perfect moment, he finally had them.

Oh, how quickly the illusion of happiness shatters…

After a while, still sore and dazed, he begins to wonder how long he’s really been down here. Days, weeks, months? It’s hard to tell with the ever-present light and the long bouts of delirium. Maybe he’s always been here; maybe he never escaped to the world above in the first place. Leuis always used to tell him he’d never be free.

He thinks of Leuis next—because he _sees_ Leuis suddenly, standing on the grate, staring down at him through the lattice. His silvery eyes reflect the dim light around him, glowing like a wolf’s in the night.

Oddly enough, the man doesn’t frighten him so much in this moment. Len laughs. He laughs and he laughs and he laughs until the screaming pain in his head demands that he stop.

Then he passes back into the darkness, wondering how less of himself he’ll be when he surfaces again.

~***~

Two days after Eobard’s last visit, Barry comes to the realization that he is not alone anymore.

Only the southern shore was devastated by the fire, leaving the greater part of the forest intact. Though the air still smells of ash and the water is still tainted with soot, life persists as best it can in the Apagorev. And so should he, Barry realizes. He needs to move again—to _think_ again before he loses his mind, and he knows of no better way to do that than to explore the same old paths he swam when he was first alone. It’s not a stimulating task, but it forces him to focus on his environment, which, in turn, keeps him from dwelling on other things.

He encounters this intruder on the northern beach, a long and narrow stretch of sand and dirt nowhere nearly as murky as the shore on the south side. The trees are also spaced farther apart, which is the only reason, Barry assumes, this stranger was able to take his large, black steed with him. They are standing together now in the shallows as the horse quenches its thirst. The man gently strokes its flank as it drinks its fill, his eyes half-lidded, looking exhausted in a way Barry can easily sympathize.

The man in question is a tall fellow with short, golden brown hair. The shadow of a beard along his jawline and the grime on his clothes suggest he’s a long way from home. In fact, there’s an abdominal tear in his shirt half hidden under his coat, unstitched and soiled with the unmistakably reddish-brown stain of caked blood. Barry wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on the run from something.

Barry keeps his distance at first. With only his eyes above the water line, he watches the horse drink as the man speaks to his companion in low tones, still petting the creature gently. Once it lifts its mouth from the water, the man grabs the reins to lead it back to shore. It’s then that the stranger’s gaze finally falls on Barry, narrowing his eyes in confusion, no doubt trying to piece together what exactly he’s looking at.

Ducking underwater, Barry briefly considers retreating. He’s had his fill of unexpected company for the year, and he’s tired of losing his visitors to Eobard.

However…even after the horrible lesson he learned from his emotionally exhausting ordeal with Len, Barry’s conscience still has the audacity to rear its ugly head, reminding him that this man—like all the weary travellers that came before him—deserves a fair warning of what kind of trouble he’s getting himself into by being here.

Barry swims closer to the shore, enough so that when he sits down on the sediment the water only comes up to his waist. His visitor has already returned to the beach by now, but he hears Barry approaching and turns his head to find the young man sitting there in shallows. Naturally, this gives the poor fellow a moment’s pause.

It’s an awfully long moment, during which neither one of them clearly knows what to say. In fact, it isn’t until the horse yanks its reins free from its master’s loose grip to investigate a patch of long grass that the man is finally shaken from his reverie. Baffled, he blinks at Barry and says, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting to run into anyone all the way out here. Aren’t you…cold?”

Barry stares down at his naked torso. He _is_ cold, when he thinks about it, but this cool weather is nothing in comparison to what it’s like in the winter months. This pales in comparison.

Since he’s not here to exchange pleasantries, he turns his gaze back to his puzzled guest and says, “It isn’t safe here.”

“…And why is that?”

The day someone takes his warnings at his word will be a glorious one. However, since this visitor is apparently as obstinate as all the rest, Barry rattles off the basics: “This forest is guarded by the sidhe, Eobard Thawne. I suggest you retrace your steps to avoid his traps on your way out. I would also advise you to leave before nightfall.”

Oddly enough, the man doesn’t balk at his sharp response. Instead, he smirks at Barry and leans down to grab a dried piece of driftwood off the beach, tossing it onto the small pile in the sand behind him, which he’s apparently been working on since Barry last saw him. “Is this the same ‘Eobard Thawne’ who serves King Zolomon?” he asks.

Really, there’s no need to continue this conversation now that he’s delivered his warning, but most people don’t smile when they hear Eobard’s name and that tweaks Barry’s interest enough to keep him rooted to the spot for the moment. Most travellers usually only stumble into the Apagorev for refuge and then immediately panic when they realize just what sort of trouble they’ve gotten themselves into.

“One and the same,” Barry replies.

“He won’t see me,” the stranger elaborates. “Not unless I want him to.”

“Are you a sorcerer?” Barry asks, curious.

“I’ve dabbled in the arts,” the man confesses, making his way down the shore to collect a second piece of wood. He tosses it back with the others. “But I’m a soldier by trade. I served the House of Palmer before Zolomon began his campaign. Then I travelled east to join the Waynes, up until they, too, were overthrown.”

“You’re lucky to have survived this long…” Barry muses. |You’re not too far from King Henry’s domain. Is that where you’re headed?”

“Eventually,” the man admits, pausing in his collection to plant his hands on his hips and stretch his back. He looks like he’s dying for a break. “I’m still trying to fight the good fight. I was told by the sidhe that I would find the key to victory at the bottom of this lake. Once I retrieve it, I plan on delivering it to King Henry myself.”

It’s hard talking about his father knowing he will never see him alive again. A little of this bitterness bleeds out in Barry’s voice as he says, “They lied to you. I fell for the same trick over a year ago.”

The stranger squints at him in confusion, as if suspicious of his accusation. “They can’t lie; they swore by their statement. Besides, you couldn’t _possibly_ have searched every square inch of this lake yet, even if you had a year to look.”

There’s a hot flash of annoyance in his chest as Barry flicks his tail sharply up out of the water and back down again. The look of shock on his companion’s face when he sees his fin would almost be comical if not for how frustrated Barry feels right now. “I know because I live here,” he snaps, before retreating into the water.

His anger persists throughout the day and most of the night. Of course, by the time dawn rolls around again, he feels stupid for losing his temper. The sidhe can’t lie when they swear to the tell the truth. Eobard could have easily been feeding false rumors to his brethren to create mischief in other, more indirect ways. If so, it’s not his visitor’s fault he’s come all this way for nothing.

Barry returns to the shore that morning with a hastily constructed apology forming at the back of his mind to find his companion already wide awake and hard at work. He’s collecting more wood, though of longer pieces this time, and laying them out side by side on the sand while his steed relaxes in the shade, its head tucked up against its side, still sound asleep. His looks incredibly tired, considering how early it still is in the day, his bare chest and face already flush from all the work he’s done.

It’s difficult to discern at this distance, but it looks as though he has a large, black tattoo etched over his right clavicle of an intricately woven trinity knot. Barry makes a mental note of it as he settles down in the shallow water again and opens his mouth to speak—but the man beats him to the punch: “I apologize for yesterday. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Why are you apologizing to _me_?” Barry asks, truly baffled. “I’m the one who threw a fit.”

“Because I’ve seen Zolomon’s handiwork before,” his visitor explains, gaze dropping to Barry’s lap, where he can no doubt now distinguish Barry’s red tail curled up around him beneath the shimmering surface of the water. “I hate to ask, but is that…permanent?”

Barry knows he has about a month left before Zolomon arrives. This is the final countdown before his fate is sealed, technically. He’s been trying hard not to focus on that. “…Not yet.”

“That’s…good, I guess.” He rubs the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. “I can leave now and try to find help. There’s a village about—”

“It won’t work,” Barry interjects softly, heart heavy with the remembrance of a similar conversation he had not too long ago…

His would-be saviour looks genuinely surprised. “Wait—what _wouldn’t_ you give to be free again? I mean, I’m _assuming_ Eobard is keeping you here against your will, but, please, feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.”

“I’ve offered travellers such as yourself everything from information to my hand in marriage in exchange for my freedom,” Barry retorts, fighting to keep both his volume and his temper down. “So believe me when I say I would give just about _anything_ to leave this place. However, Eobard’s erected a barrier around the forest. Once you leave, you won’t remember me.”

“…I see.” The man at least has the decency to look ashamed for his sharp response. “I’m sorry. You’re my first damsel in distress—”

“I’m not a damsel,” Barry mutters.

“Yes, right. I’m sorry… but maybe whatever is at the bottom of the lake—”

“There _is_ no mystical weapon at the bottom of the lake!” Barry snaps, frustrated almost to the point of tears. Talking about such a fanciful item reminds him too much of the lie he was told to lure him here, the deception that stole him away from everyone he loved. The reminder of that particular anguish is like a vice around his heart, cold and unrelenting. He wants to claw the sensation out of his chest with his bare hands.

The stranger looks as though he wants to say something else, but Barry darts away before he can open his mouth. He retreats to the little cave at the bottom of the lake, where he curls up into a ball and sleeps fitfully for the better part of the day.

He doesn’t want to think of the mistake that led him to here now, but when he wakes a part of him begins dwelling on the man on the shore again, whom he can’t help but feel is being drawn into an equally elaborate trap. There’s nothing else that could possibly explain why fate brought him here, because there is absolutely _nothing_ in this lake that could be of use to him. All that exists down here is Barry and his small collection of useless junk.

Thinking about said collection is its own brand of punishment. After Len had come and gone from his life, Barry took his knife, Eobard’s dagger, and the copper cup with its gems, and tucked it all away in a small recess at the far back of his cave. He has no use for any of it, although he might be able to entertain his guest with the more curious pieces of his collection. So, he snatches up the cup, dumps out its content, and then grabs Eobard’s obsidian dagger, heading back to shore with the hope that he can somehow entice his unassuming visitor to leave by the sheer power of disappointment.

This time, he finds the man sitting on the sand beside his pile of wood, patiently weaving together long strips of bark. It looks like he’s trying to make rope, but for what Barry can’t even begin to imagine.

As soon the man realizes he’s there, Barry hurls the copper cup in his general direction. It lands a few feet to the left of his target, forcing the man to drop his work and stretch over to reach it. Clearly puzzled, it takes him a while to voice his thoughts. “Is this supposed to be a peace offering?”

Barry shrugs. “Not really, but you can keep it if you like.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome. It is, after all, the only thing that existed in this lake before I came along.”

His answer doesn’t appear to be alleviate the other man’s confusion, but after studying the cup for a while, he eventually sets it down beside him and asks, “What else have you got there?”

Barry lifts the Eobard’s dagger out of the water, eyeing the gently curved blade and faint silver inscription on the hilt. He doesn’t recognize the language, so he has no idea what it says. “Eobard left this with me a while ago. I think it would be divine justice if his blade turned out to be whatever your prophecy is talking about, so you can have it if you’d like.”

“Now _that_ looks promising,” his visitor admits as he pushes himself up onto his feet. “Just don’t throw it at me, alright?”

“My aim isn’t that bad.”

“I never said it was,” he replies, trying not to smile. He struggles out of his boots and rolls up the bottom of his trousers before walking out into the water, slow with the first few steps when the cold hits him. He seems to get over the drop in temperature quickly by the time he reaches Barry, extending his hand for the blade. “May I?”

“It’s all yours.”

His visitor lifts the dagger out of his hand—

—and immediately drops it between them, his palm turning red where he touched the hilt as if he’d been burned. He lowers himself to one knee and plunges his hand into the water before Barry can protest the hygienics of his decision.

“I’m sorry,” Barry says, wincing in sympathy as the other man grits his teeth against the pain. He wants to help, but doesn’t know how, hovering kind of stupidly beside his wounded guest. “I swear to you, I had no idea that was going to happen.”

“It’s Eobard’s, so I hardly think you’re the one to blame,” he replies with a grimace, slowly lifting his hand out of the water again. Thankfully, it doesn’t look _too_ bad, although he clenches and flexes his fingers stiffly, clearly surprised by the amount of pain he’s in. “It figures he would charm it. Did he give you explicit permission to use it? Why would he do that?”

Barry doesn’t want to revisit the whole fiasco with Len and King Leuis, so with a small shrug he says, “I don’t know,” and leaves it at that.

As his visitor exercises the ache from his hand, Barry takes note of the tiny little scars on the outside of his thumb and the upper edge of his wrist where he was probably nicked by the blade in battle. With him so close, Barry also takes note of the poorly healed scar on the right side of the man’s neck and the jagged cut across the hollow of his throat, just under his larynx. Taken together with the hastily stitched up cuts on his shirt and coat, Barry would say he looks like a man who’s seen his fill of battles.

His companion, of course, catches him staring. They lock eyes for a moment then, the stranger’s a blueish-gray that almost remind Barry of Len’s if it weren’t for the faint flecks of gold around his pupils. The color of his eyes stands out from his pale complexion, marred by the light layer of dirt on his face. It’s hint of vigor to counterbalance his tired expression.

“Do you have a name?” his companion asks after what feels like small eternity, voice soft, still kneeling in the water.

“Bartholomew,” Barry offers quietly. “What should I call you, stranger?”

There’s the barest curl at the corner of the other man’s lips, a small spark of unexpected delight.

“Jason,” he says.

Barry smiles a little, too.

He thinks he might like this ‘Jason’.

~***~

Reality comes and goes.

Today, he returns to lucidity as he’s being dragged down the hall, a guard supporting him by either arm, escorting him back to the oubliette. He feels heavy and numb, but he isn’t hurt; the blood on his shirt doesn’t belong to him. There’s also a song in his veins, the guttural cry of victory ringing in his ears, and he knows without knowing that he’s killed someone else today.

And he enjoyed it very much.

In his weakened state, he’s lain out on a wooden board and then lowered down into his cell. He catches sight of Captain Amaya in the corner of his eye, standing beside the grate in her white armor, polished to perfection. She is not smiling, but then Len can’t ever remember having seen her smile before, not even when he was dragged to hell the first time so many years ago. She just seems perpetually displeased.

She lingers there as a glass bottle of water and bowl of bread and meat are lowered down to him. He’s too tired to move from his spot on the floor, so he simply stares up at her and listens as she muses aloud, “You’re getting stronger, your highness.”

“And you’re getting lovelier every day,” he croaks in return, right before he rolls onto his side and just about hacks up a lung. He feels like he hasn’t articulated a single thought in ages.

His quip is met with stony silence before she finally says, “But you’re still not strong enough.”

“I do so hate to disappoint,” he drawls, voice still hoarse. Then he closes his eyes, tried of blue glow that surrounds him and the perpetual ringing in his ears, wanting nothing more than to sleep for the next hundred thousand years.

If she says anything else beyond that, he doesn’t catch it.

As always, he quickly succumbs to the darkness.

~***~

When Barry comes to visit Jason the following day, he finds a somewhat different man.

His visitor has shaved his face, which is the first thing that jumps out at Barry, followed second by the fact that he’s made an obvious attempt to wash the rest of himself down. His hair and chest are still gleaming wet when Barry arrives, just in time to catch Jason shrugging on his still-ruined shirt. The man’s got abs, which Barry can’t help but notice, because he a toned physique is something he was always stupidly attracted in his prospective lovers before this long and involuntary stretch of celibacy. Jason also looks considerably younger without the beard, although not quite as young as Barry.

Once Jason is clothed again, he notices Barry sitting in the shallows. His mouth splits into an easy grin as he says, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Barry returns, feeling oddly touched by the small sentiment. He should really try to focus now. Allowing himself to get caught up in his emotions landed him in a world of trouble with his last visitor. “I wanted to warn you that Zolomon will be coming in about a month. I don’t know how long you plan to stick around, but the sooner you leave, the better.”

“I can’t leave yet,” Jason sighs. “Besides our favorite point of contention—that being my search for this mystical weapon—I can’t in good conscious leave you behind.”

Barry’s glad Jason has finally come to terms with the fact that he can’t convince Barry any such weapon exists in this lake, but he does feel a familiar cocktail of sadness and guilt when he mentions Barry’s imprisonment. Because, even if Len and his partner ‘Mick’ intended to deliver Barry to King Leuis, Barry doesn’t for second believe Hartley was ever aware of their grander plot. He hates the idea of a truly innocent individual losing time—and commonly their life—in a wild bid to help him escape.

“We’re going to have a second point of contention,” Barry replies wearily, not aiming to sound confrontational today, “that being the reality that I can’t be saved. Please don’t waste your efforts on me.”

“You’re a funny guy,” Jason muses, grinning, “but I’m a grown man, and I think I can decide for myself how I want to spend my time and energy.”

“Fair enough,” he sighs.

“In any case, I told you before, you’re not the first person Zolomon’s pulled this little stunt on. The curse _can_ be broken without his approval.”

Barry can feel that stupid coil of hope unwinding in his gut again, that false start for broken dreams. “I know there’s a cure, but it isn’t permanent.”

“Potions are fine and dandy in the short term, but this curse mimics what happens to people who eat a bad seed from the _laviatarius_ lily. Their soulmate is supposedly their salvation.”

His heart drops a little when he realizes Jason has nothing new to share with him. Somewhat bitterly, he says, “I think the power of love is a little overrated, don’t you? Love can’t make food grow in a famine; love can’t stop an army from marching on an unsuspecting village; love can’t save a friend from the clutches of death—‘ _love’_ , so far as I can tell, is a master of lauding its imaginary victories and nothing much else.”

“That’s a remarkably hard stance to take on a solitary emotion,” Jason replies, voice soft with understanding. “And while I agree that love sometimes fails us in spectacular ways, it’s still a bastion of hope and compassion. It compels us to be our better selves. It pulls us out of the darkness.”

“When’s it going to pull me out of the darkness?” Barry breathes, heart heavy, struck once more with the fatigue of waiting for his own salvation.

Jason is silent for a long moment, solemnly watching him. After a while, he plants his hands on his hips and says, “I wonder how you would react if your soulmate appeared on this shore one day and dragged you out of that water once and for all. Would you deny love’s stranger abilities even then?”

“If my soulmate showed up out of nowhere and made me human again, I would marry them at once. Then I’d drag them home with me to my kingdom, where the poor fool would forever remain a target of Zolomon simply for the misfortune of their connection to me.”

Jason laughs a little at this, which ultimately helps to lighten the mood. “I think even with a target on their back, they wouldn’t consider themselves unfortunate in the least.” He tilts his head to one side, smirking at Barry in a way that suggests he’s just come to a fascinating conclusion. “ _Your_ kingdom, hm? …I knew Prince Bartholomew was missing, but I guess this kind of confirms you’re one in the same.”

“Does being a prince somehow make me more worthy of love’s consideration?” he asks, confused. He certainly didn’t believe he deserved more or less help from the Powers That Be.

“No—that’s not…” Jason runs a hand along his cleanly-shaven jaw, searching for the correct words. “It’s just, there’s been a lot of news bleeding across the border about King Henry lately.”

Barry’s heart seizes in his throat. He—

“—His health has improved immensely. I just thought you might like to know.”

—just about faints right there in the water. Instead, he chokes out something that sounds like both a laugh and a cry as his vision briefly hazes over. He feels as though his world has been tilted on its axis, having descended so quickly into the gaping maw of grief before being so suddenly snatched once more from its suffocating depths.

Barry presses a hand against his chest and tries to remember how to breath. He’s only vaguely aware of the splash of water as Jason wades over to him and crouches down beside him, looking as though he wants to offer the prince some kind of comfort.

Barry politely waves his hand at the other man in a sign of dismissal. “I’m…I’m fine. It’s just…my father was already so sick when I last saw him. I thought my disappearance would’ve been the nail in his coffin. You don’t know how good it is to hear he’s alright.”

“I think you, of all people, finally deserve some sign of happiness from the universe, however small it might be.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, admittedly embarrassed for getting so emotional over a bit of good news. He rubs his eyes before the tears that are gathering can fall and says, “I think…I need to go and clear my mind for a bit. Thank you for sharing that with me. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about how we’re going to find this elusive weapon of yours.”

“Take all the time you need,” Jason replies, both clearly surprised and pleased with Barry’s offer of help. The man straightens to his full height and retreats back to shore while Barry returns to greater depths.

His heart feels swollen and there’s a flutter in his stomach as he settles down in his cave again. He retrieves his rusted dagger from the sand, one of his father’s last gifts to him, and turns it over in his hands until he falls asleep curled up in the darkness.

He knows he shouldn’t allow himself to fall victim to happiness again so soon, but for just this blessed moment in time, he allows his heart a moment of reprieve.

~***~

There is a body lying on the ground at his feet, and Len knows he’s the one who put it there.

He comes to his senses in an empty hall made entirely of glass, reflecting and refracting the dim glow of some internal light, only failing to illuminate the dark ceiling hundreds of feet above him. It is remarkably empty here, despite its size, although Len somehow knows all the people who usually occupy this space have been sent away for the day, that normally they would crowd around the translucent pillars with almost manic glee in the hopes of catching a glimpse of their king in action. Their king is a cruel man, but they have become a cruel people, and Len knows they are beginning to enjoy his twisted sense of justice more and more with every passing day.

Today, there is only King Leuis and a few members of his personal guard, lined up on either side of his glass throne. Nobody moves as Len stares down at his victim, a very young man in white armor, impaled on a sliver of ice straight through the heart. His eyes are open and dead. His blood pools on the polished floor beneath him, slowly expanding, the only motion left in his vacant body.

Len’s chest is heaving for air, but he’s unharmed. In fact, he barely feels a thing, physical or otherwise. There’s a numbness in the hollow of his heart that extends into every limb and digit. It’s the fountain from which he draws his powers, a coldness that eclipses all thought and feeling.

And yet…he still _feels_ something.

Len frowns, staring down at his hand, wondering what could’ve compelled him to kill a perfect stranger.

“Do you see why you should’ve stayed,” his father says, voice level, _bored_ almost. He doesn’t care one whit about the dead man, who is now being collected by a pair of his fellow guards, dragged off and away through a door behind the throne. “ _Power_ , Leonard. Even in the span of just a few hours, you’ve managed to surpass the work you achieved yesterday. It was truly foolish of you to run when you were still so young and untrained.”

“Why does it matter to you?” Len asks. His own voice is weaker than he would prefer, hoarse from disuse. He curls his hands into fists and turns to fully face his father, trying to ignore the smear of blood at his feet and the sharp tang of its smell in the air. He’s killed before of his own accord in the world above, but never for any reason he couldn’t justify.

“Legacy,” Leuis says. “You are an extension of me. Someday you will hold this throne in both my honor and my memory.”

His father’s words turn his stomach. He can almost taste the bile as it rises in the back of his throat.

Len makes no effort to hide the look of disgust on his face. “I’m not a _thing_.”

“You are whatever I want you to be,” Leuis replies coolly. “You have no say in the matter.”

“I’m sure the law does,” Len replies, which is not something he would ever hear himself say given his profession. All the same, he has a basic understanding of what rules govern Leuis and his ‘throne’, curtesy of his sister. “By birth, Lise is more sidhe than I am. The throne goes to her first and foremost, no questions asked. _You_ have no say in the matter.”

“Unless she dies.”

Len’s hollow heart skips a beat, propelled back into action by fear. He’s careful not to let it show as he smartly retorts, “Which I assume hasn’t happened yet, given the lack of festivities. And since you’re not allowed to kill your own heir, I don’t see why you’re getting so worked up over this ridiculous fantasy of yours anyway.”

“I’ve removed her from my protection,” Leuis announces, as if that’s supposed to mean anything.

“As smart as she is, she doesn’t need your protection,” Len drawls, feeling a little more like his usual self. Admittedly, he’s still confused as to why Leuis would throw her to the wolves now of all times. The old man’s greatest vice is his pride; finally acknowledging how unworthy his daughter is of her birthright is a poor reflection on him and his bloodline. “How’d she rile you up this time? Did she finally beat you at bocce?”

Two of the guards on Leuis’ left exchange the briefest glance. Len knows they’re not used to people openly ridiculing their king.

The corner of Leuis’ jaw twitches. He keeps curling and uncurling his right hand into a fist where it rests against the armrest of his throne.

Len knows the man probably wants to sock him one in the face.

In all honesty, his father terrifies him in a way no other living being can. But fear is an old friend of Len’s, one he’s learned to work well with over the years. It’s the only reason he’s able to calmly fold his hands together behind his back now and continue his wild ponderings. “Does this have something to do with Zolomon, I wonder?”

Leuis stops clenching his fist momentarily.

 _Ah-ha_ , Len thinks…

“She’s thrown her lot in with _him_ ,” Leuis seethes. “She’s _betrayed_ her people—”

“But she hasn’t,” Len interjects smoothly, heart beating rapidly in excitement. The only thing he loves more than getting away with a lie is catching someone in one of their own. “She’s been hiding from him, too. You just _assumed_ she wanted to make an alliance with him—why is that?”

“She is a _traitor_!” Leuis bellows, rising from his seat. His voice echoes in the empty chamber, ringing viciously in Len’s ear, vibrating in his very bones.

Despite it all, Len smiles.

“Take him away!” Leuis commands his guards. Two of them step forward as Leuis stares down his son, silvery eyes fixed on Len’s, boring into his brain…

It’s then that Len remembers his father’s unique power, the ability to bend minds to his will. But this revelation comes too late.

Len meets his father stare with steely reserve and slips back into the darkness.

~***~

At dawn, Barry finds himself wandering through the lake, low down near the sediment and rocks, looking for any subtle clue of Jason’s elusive weapon. He knows its foolish to search like this, but his heart is lighter today, and he feels like humoring the man, even if it’s only for a few hours. Realistically, they would never be able to cover the entirety of the lake in their search before Zolomon arrives, and that’s assuming this so-called weapon isn’t buried. If it is, well…that just adds a whole other level of difficulty.

A little while before midday, Barry returns to Jason’s camp on the shore. He finds the man still twining rope, patiently weaving the tufts of bark together as his horse grazes peacefully behind him.

When Barry surfaces, Jason spares him a glance and smiles. “Hello again.”

“Hello,” Barry replies. He stares at the massive pile of wood and the ever-growing length of rope, and, curiosity finally getting the better of him, he asks, “What on earth are you making?”

 Jason glances over his shoulder at the wood, then returns to his work. “A raft.”

“Do really need so much wood? How many people are you planning to sail with that thing?”

“Just me.”

“Then you’re putting _way_ too much work into this.”

“It needs to be big,” Jason explains, “so that it doesn’t turn over while I’m tethered to it or trying to climb out of the water.”

Barry laughs a little in confusion. “Why would you tether yourself to it?”

Jason shrugs, eyes on his work, as if he’s troubled by something. Then, very quietly, he says, “I can’t swim.”

…

Oh.

Jason’s fortunate that Barry is here, because if he tried any such stunt on his own, he’d be guaranteed to drown. You couldn’t just tether yourself to a boat and pull yourself up from the bottom of a lake after a little light exploration. Physics operated differently in a media such as water.

“You should’ve mentioned something sooner,” Barry says. “I know how we can bypass your problem.”

“You’ve been a little resistant to my ideas so far. I didn’t want to push.”

…True enough. Barry still isn’t a hundred percent behind Jason’s idea to scour the lake for his artifact, but maybe seeing the magnitude of the task before him firsthand will finally convince him to abandon this foolish endeavor.

“I’m sorry,” Barry says. “Now, take off as much of your clothes as you’re comfortable ditching and come over here so I can kiss you.”

Jason slowly deposits the frayed end of his rope on top of its little pile, frowning curiously. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips, as if he was trying not to let on how amused he is to hear Barry say such a thing.

It takes Barry far too long to realize why Jason is staring at him like that. “It’s so you can breathe under water,” he quickly amends. “It’s a merfolk thing. I swear.”

“If you say so,” Jason murmurs as he kicks off his boots and rises to his feet. Then he shrugs off his coat and pulls his shirt up over his head, still smirking as he finally descends into the water.

Barry feels like his face is burning. His heart is fluttering inside his chest as he swims backward into deeper water. He only goes far enough out that the water level should only come up to Jason’s pecks, but the man starts to look a little leery the closer he gets, clearly worried that the depth is greater than it appears. “Just as a gentle reminder,” he murmurs, “I _did_ say I can’t swim.”

“Don’t worry,” Barry assures him. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Jason smirks at him again and presses onward until he’s close enough that Barry can reach out and rest his hands against the other man’s shoulders. In return, Jason cups Barry’s face with his large, calloused hands. Either consciously or not, he strokes a thumb against Barry’s cheeks.

Barry’s mouth suddenly feels a little dry. He has to clear his throat before he begins his instructions. “Once we kiss,” he says—

—but that’s as far as he gets before Jason ducks his head and presses his lips against Barry’s soft mouth, still above water. When Jason finally pulls away, Barry can’t help but laugh, both startled and amused by Jason's eagerness. “Let me finish. I’m—”

—in immense pain all of a sudden, not too dissimilar from how he feels whenever he eats one of Eobard’s flowers. Except this time the spasm in his tail doesn’t end. The muscles flex and seize up. So does his throat when he opens his mouth to scream; no sound escapes. His world is on fire.

He doesn’t understand what’s going on.

He rests his head forward against Jason’s chest, nails digging into the man’s shoulders hard enough to draw blood. Thankfully, Jason doesn’t try to shake him off. Instead, he envelops Barry’s shuddering form in his arms and makes his way back to shore, carrying Barry with him, trying to say something that is lost in the rushing sound in Barry’s ears.

He’s sees black at one point and wakes up lying on the sand, the water still lapping at his legs. Only an echo of the pain remains, leaving him feeling heavy and weak and sick to his stomach. The sun is too bright, and the world suddenly doesn’t want to hold still. It keeps rocking him from side to side to some nauseating rhythm he would give just about anything to end.

Through the haze, he realizes that the fact that he has legs means…that he has legs. Confused, he touches his right thigh, which is smooth but firm in the way skin should be, and holds his hand above his face to investigate the slick substance suddenly sticking to him. His fingertips are covered in blood.

Dazed, he pushes himself up onto his left elbow and stares down the length of his body. The gentle waves that pass over him wash away the mess of blood and dazzling red scales still feebly clinging to his skin. Vaguely, he remembers there was blood in the water the first time he transformed from human to fish; this conversion feels just as permanent, as if he’s losing a second skin he’d reluctantly gotten used to.

Still in shock, he doesn’t notice Jason has returned to his side until the man drops his coat over Barry’s naked form. Barry lies back down again in exhaustion, tears stinging at the corner of his eyes as Jason combs a hand through Barry’s wet hair.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

Barry covers his face with his hands, trying to will the tears away, and shakes his head. He wants to say something, but he knows he’ll only choke. What he feels is indescribable.

Jason leans over to press a kiss against his temple and whispers, “You’re free now. It’s okay to cry. It’s all over.”

So he does, his whole body shuddering, silently relieved when Jason lies down beside him and enfolds Barry in his arms. His mind is a mess of emotions. He’s happy to be free and still so sad that it took him this long to find his freedom. His experience here is going to haunt him for the rest of his life.  

Barry sobs openly against Jason’s chest until he’s too exhausted to cry anymore. In fact, now he has a splitting headache on top of everything else, a searing pain behind his eyes that radiates out toward his temples, and a runny nose. He wipes at it with the back of his hand, wondering what kind of sight he must be right now, naked and crying and still half-lying in the water.

It sounds so perfectly undignified, he laughs.

Jason laughs too, gently extracting himself from Barry’s side and climbing back to his feet. “Hold on,” he says, as he runs over to grab his shirt and his boots where he discarded them earlier, stumbling back into his clothes before returning for Barry. He helps the prince sit upright and then properly maneuvers him into the coat, which is a tad large across the shoulders but which fortunately still has all its buttons. Barry loves it, regardless. Slipping out of the water and into his nakedness again feels like a rebirth.

“Can you stand?” Jason asks, to which the answer is soon revealed to be a resounding _no_ when Barry’s legs refuse to budge. They’re still a little numb in the joints, not wholly responding to his request to move.

Jason, so calm and good-natured about this whole thing, hooks an arm behind Barry’s back and under his knees and then sweeps him up off his feet. He lifts Barry as if he were a sack of feathers, depositing him on a fallen tree trunk beside the woods and his horse, who immediately trots over to sniff the back of Barry’s head inquisitively.

“He likes you,” Jason chuckles as he collects his saddle and saddle bags from the beach.

“What’s his name?” Barry asks, holding his hand up to gently pat the creatures face. It nuzzles his open palm until its master approaches, then lifts its head curiously toward Jason.

“Phillip,” Jason supplies, throwing the saddle over its back. He does up the buckle across its stomach carefully and then attaches his two burlap bags of supplies behind it. “Because he annoys the hell out of me sometimes, juts like my younger brother, Phillip.”

Phillip exhales loudly through his nose, but Barry doesn’t know if that’s a direct response to Jason’s quip or just happenstance. He’s amused for all of a moment until the implication of what Jason is doing right now finally set in. “Are you leaving?” Barry asks, confused.

“ _We’re_ leaving,” Jason clarifies, quirking an eyebrow at Barry. “Preferably now, while the sun’s still high. If we’re lucky, we’ll reach the nearest town by nightfall. Then we’ll figure out the best way to circle back around the Apagorev forest to your kingdom.”

Barry must still be dazed, because Jason’s answer doesn’t at all alleviate his confusion. He gestures weakly toward the lake. “What about your weapon?”

His question startles a laugh out of Jason, who squints briefly at the lake before he wanders over to Barry, crouching down in front of him in the sand. He takes Barry’s pale hands in his, stroking his thumbs gently over the back of Barry’s knuckles, and says, “Zolomon can’t win this war without you. In essence, all I need is you, and all you need is me. We’re going to leave now before anything can stop us, and you’ll never see this place again. Do you understand?”

Barry nods, albeit numbly. Dimly, he knows he’s just in shock, that once he’s got his strength back and he’s put some distance between himself and this place, his wits will return to him.

“I understand,” he says, “but I think I’m still surprised. I’ve put so much effort into escaping. It’s all I ever yearned for…”

Jason gives his hands a comforting squeeze, brow furrowed in concern. “You’re not…disappointed, are you?”

“God, _no_!” He pulls his hands gently from Jason’s grip and leans forward to cup the other man’s face, bracing him for the kiss Barry presses against his lips. He tastes sweet, like apples, which is a delightfully random thought. When he pulls away, he says, “My only regret is that I had to wait so long to finally meet you.”

Jason smiles at him in a way that triggers that fluttering warmth inside the pit of his stomach again. Barry can feel that smile against his lips when Jason kisses him yet again.

He think he just might enjoy kissing this man for the rest of his life.

Jason pulls away to continue gathering whatever supplies he left on the beach, which really only amounts to the long stretch of rope he was painstakingly working on and a large flask of water. Once everything is packed away, he grabs Phillip’s reins, which are hanging from a nearby tree, and settles the harness over the horses head. Then, finally, he turns to collect Barry.

Barry can barely stand long enough for Jason to hoist him onto the back of the beast, but his companion is both patient and strong, and before too long Barry is finally sitting sideways in the saddle. He balances there precariously, hoping Phillip doesn’t take a sudden disliking to him, until Jason hops on behind him. He wraps one arm around Barry’s waist and grabs for the reins with the other.

Tucked together and perfectly supported, they finally head off into the forest.

Barry finds himself glancing back once at the lake as they go, although he doesn’t know why. He almost feels as though he needs to commend a picture of it to his memory, because no one will ever pass this way again and know how long he suffered in his solitude.

Then he focuses his gaze on the path ahead of them and resolves to think of it no more.

They travel mostly in silence as they pass through the forest. The northern side of the Apagorev is nowhere near as tight and twisted as the south, and so it’s almost possible to pretend this is just another stretch of land in his Barry’s kingdom not too unlike his favorite hunting grounds. He finds himself at peace as he’s rocked in time with Phillip’s sure-footed pace, Jason’s strong arm secure around him, feeling as though he’s been folded into some serene corner of the universe.

It isn’t until he sees a break in the trees ahead and the stretch of a golden wheat field in the distance that Barry comes back to his senses. Fear turns his stomach as he recalls the barrier.

Jason must feel him tensing, because he quietly asks, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s the barrier,” he breathes, heart hammering in his chest. He wishes Phillip would slow down, but there’s a part of him that just wants to ride full tilt ahead and _leave_ before Eobard or some other force of nature stops them. “We’re going to forget everything once we cross over to other side.”

“Well…” Jason sighs, clearly having forgotten about that little stitch in their escape plan himself. “Regardless, you’ll still be free. And I…I will probably be confused, though not entirely displeased, over having a delightfully naked young man suddenly in my lap.”

“I will likely freak out,” Barry replies, trying to be realistic, “and I will hit you. I apologize in advance for whatever I do to you.”

“Consider yourself pre-emptively forgiven.”

Barry laughs a little, silently grateful to have someone as calm as Jason at his side. It helps to distract him from his mounting terror as they finally break free from the forest and continue out into the field. Barry sits there, braced, staring up at the darkening sky for some sign that they’re approaching the barrier.

Phillip continues onward, blissfully unaware of their concerns. Barry is half-expecting the horse to throw a fit once it cross the barrier itself, but nothing ever happens.

Absolutely _nothing_.

“…Are you sure about the barrier?” Jason inquires, glancing over his shoulder at the forest. “Because the anticipation of you hitting me is getting to be unbearable.”

“But he told me…”

“Who told you about? Eobard? The bastard was probably lying about the barrier.”

No, it was Len, actually, but realizing there was another layer to his deceit hurts worse than Barry could’ve imagined, especially because Barry didn’t want to dwell on the sidhe or his betrayal any more now that he was free. He wanted to find a way to forgive the man for his transgressions and move on with his life.

“You seem upset,” Jason says after a beat. He gives Barry’s hip a comforting squeeze. “Try not to dwell on it. That man has hurt you enough already.”

“You’re right,” Barry mumbles, even if Jason doesn’t know the whole truth. He rests his hand over Jason’s and squeezes it in return, trying to ignore the way the temperature has suddenly dropped as the sun begins its descent behind the horizon. He knew it was getting colder outside, but it’s easier to ignore the change under water because it takes the lake a while to cool. “How much farther do we have to go?”

“We should hit the village in under an hour. I promise.”

Jason tugs Phillip’s reins a little to the left, angling him toward the edge of the wheat field and onto a wide dirt road. Barry wonders if that’s wise, considering he’s technically on the run now. “After Zolomon took this region, didn’t he leave soldiers to patrol the area?”

“He enlisted the help of a local Baron to use his own soldiers to patrol the area, but the villagers have gotten fed up with his antics in recent years. If they catch sight of us anywhere but on the main path, they’ll shoot us.”

Barry has no desire to end his first day of freedom impaled on an arrow, so he sits tight and hopes for the best.

Night descends quickly, although the path ahead is still illuminated by the waning gibbous of the moon, uninhibited by clouds and haloed by a blanket of stars. He relaxes after a while, knowing that Jason is familiar with the area, and even feels a small knot of excitement forming in his stomach when he sees a long row of buildings up ahead, their windows warmly lit, the small town still buzzing despite the hour.

There are a few people milling about along the main street doing all the simple things villagers do, closing up their businesses or conversing with friends, slowly but surely working their way home. Barry’s heart aches at the sound of a very little girl asking her father how he got to be so tall. She seems so bright and cheery.

He’s surprised by how much he’s missed hearing such familiar white noises. He spent most of life living in a city, of course. He used to leave palace every Sunday afternoon to deliver alms to the poor, always swarmed by people and yet never feeling overwhelmed. He feels a little overwhelmed now, but in a good way, even if a few people are looking at him kind of funny, like they’re trying to figure out whether or not he’s completely naked beneath Jason’s coat.

Eventually, an older woman with wisps of grey hair peaking out beneath her white cap steps down from the porch of an inn and waves Jason over frantically, a small, blond boy no older than nine or ten trailing dutifully along behind her. “Milord,” she whispers urgently, gaze shifting between the two of them. “Who’s this poor thing?”

“I will explain everything later,” Jason replies. “For now, I need you to collect the magistrate and John Bruce.”

The woman glances over her shoulder at the small boy and waves her hand wordlessly down the street. The young champ takes off at a sprint, looking positively thrilled by his mission.

“Do you have an open room?” Jason asks. “And perhaps some clothes for my companion?”

“Yes, of course,” she assures him, gesturing down the dirt path between the inn and the small house beside it. “Come in through the back. Robert will deal with your horse.”

Robert, whom Barry assumes is her husband, jumps up from the rickety old chair he’d half fallen asleep in outside the stable behind the inn and immediately takes the reins from Jason. He gives Barry a peculiar and somewhat pitiful look and politely turns away as Jason helps him slide down off the horse.

Barry’s legs buckle a little once his feet hit the ground, but they’re no longer numb, which is already an improvement. Simply weak, which is to be expected. He’s tempted to try taking a few steps with Jason’s assistance, but there’s already a rock jabbing into the bottom of his foot and it’s a long way between the stables and the inn, so he doesn’t protest when Jason scoops him up into his arms and carries him across the yard instead.

Jason carries him into a short hall that leads directly to a kitchen up ahead and a small room on his right. The woman is in there, rummaging through a small drawer in the corner. She finally picks out a clean white shirt and tosses it onto the bed besides a pair of dark grey trousers and wool socks. When she turns around and sees them lingering in the threshold, she smirks at Jason and says, “You look like you could use a change of clothes yourself.”

“I’ll find something tomorrow,” Jason grumbles in faux exasperation, moving into the room to deposit Barry on the bed beside his clothes. After he straightens, he smiles down at Barry and says, “Do you need a hand?”

Jason’s already gotten an eyeful of him in broad daylight, but Barry can still feel himself blushing at the thought of Jason’s hands on him, helping him into his clothes.

He’s honestly a second away from taking the man up on his offer, when the woman swats Jason on the arm and shoos him toward the door. “Give the lad a little privacy,” she natters she escorts him out of the room. As she closes the door behind her, Barry hears her ask her companion: “Are you going to tell me why he’s naked?”

Fighting back a smile, Barry undoes the buttons of Jason’s coat and lets it slip off his shoulders. Then he stares down at himself for a moment, eyeing his legs, stiffly extending the right one to weakly wiggle his toes. If he were being honest, he’s still a little shocked that he’s human again. He never thought he would miss a part of his anatomy so much before, even if he was able to grow back his legs once a month. Admittedly, there’s a small part of him that misses his tail. It was a part of him, too, even if it was key in facilitating his imprisonment. If fascinated him about as much as it terrified him, honestly.

He’s tracing his fingers up along his left thigh when, unbidden, he remembers the first time he took Len underwater. He could remember the man curiously reaching out to touch one of his pelvic fins, which were more sensitive than Barry ever anticipated. Just thinking about the sensation sends a small thrill down his spine.

Of course, he tries to banish the memory as quickly as it comes, grabbing the white shirt to distract himself. He doesn’t want to think of Len anymore, but he supposes he knows why his brain doesn’t want to cooperate. He’d fallen in love with, lost, and been betrayed by the man in rapid succession. He can’t help but wonder if he’s allowing himself to fall too quickly for Jason.

After he’s buttoned up the shirt, Barry decides to tackle the trousers next. He almost falls off the bed at one point, but he manages to get the task done without too much trouble, even distracted as he is with thoughts of his unexpected knight in shining armor (minus the shining armor). As bedraggled as he appeared to be when they first met, Jason has been nothing more than kind and courteous and ever so patient with Barry, all admirable qualities in a man. And then there’s the kiss, which pretty much speaks for itself. If fate didn’t have plans for the two of them being together, it wouldn’t have broken the curse on the first try.

Barry’s slipped on the socks and is in the process of rolling up his sleeves when there’s a knock at the door. Barry invites whoever is it to come in, which turns out to be Jason and two older gentlemen, one with white streaks in his black hair and a bushy, peppered beard, and another with a shock of red hair. Despite their age, both men are burly fellows and look as though they could floor a man with a single hit. They’re also each carrying a rifle, which puts Barry a little on edge.

The elder of the two men, the one with the white streaks, gives Barry the once over before slowly nodding his head. “Prince Bartholomew...You’re a long way from home, your highness.”

Barry shifts his gaze nervously to Jason, not sure how either of them are able to confirm his identity by sight alone. He’s sure he’s never met either of them before in his life.

Thankfully, the stranger picks up on his distress and politely bows his head. “My name is Jeremiah Fig, your highness, and I am the magistrate of this town. This fine fellow beside me is John Bruce, the leader of our community watch—” John nods at his name. “I once lived in your father’s capital, which is where I’ve seen you before. I came back to the north year ago to protect my extended family.”

Barry relaxes in his seat. “Thank you. We’re trying to get over the border ourselves.”

“You won’t be the first person we’ve helped in such an endeavour,” John replies. “We’ve been on patrol once already tonight. If you cross the border by the river at noon, you should be able to avoid any kind of trouble.”

“Of course, we won’t be able to confirm anything until our next run closer to dawn,” Fig amends. “The Baron’s patrols can be unpredictable at the best of times. We will have to play it by ear.”

He nods in understanding, although the thought of spending more than a day here worries him. The longer he stays, the more likely he is to get caught once Eobard realizes he’s missing. There’s no telling what will happen to Jason once that happens.

“As always, whatever help you can offer is appreciated,” Jason replies.

“And as always, it is our pleasure,” the magistrate beams. “Although, I think it goes without saying it’s in everyone’s best interest that the two of you continue your journey in a timely fashion.”

“We can discuss the finer details of your trip over dinner,” John adds, tipping his head a second time at Barry before he wanders over to the door. “Maeve says she’s got plenty of room upstairs for the both of you tonight.”

Even though he’s technically sitting on a bed right now, he’s delighted at the prospect of sleeping somewhere soft and dry for a night. In fact, the novelty of wearing fresh clothes is another simple pleasure that isn’t going to wear off any time soon.

“Thank you,” Jason says, nodding to each man in turn as they walk out the door. He waits until they’re gone before he wanders over to the bed, hands on his hips, eyeing Barry up as if he were a thoroughly enjoyable puzzle. “Do you want me to carry you out, or did you want to try walking?”

“I’d like to walk,” Barry replies, smiling faintly. He pats the bed beside him. “But before we go, I wanted to discuss something with you.”

Jason raises his eyebrows in surprise before settling down beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush up against one another. “What’s on your mind?”

Barry licks his lips, trying to ignore the way his heart is pounding a little harder inside his chest. He’s _so_ tired of always being so afraid. “We’ve…gotten to be pretty lucky so far.”

“This area is far from the brunt of Zolomon’s military forces. Honestly, this is probably one of the best places to cross the border.”

He’s glad Jason already knows what he’s worried about, even if that doesn’t remove any of the danger. “I think that’s only because this place has become Eobard’s domain. He’s practically a one man army.”

Jason reaches down between them to clasp Barry’s hand in his own, fingers threaded together. He tilts his head closer to Barry and breathes, “I would die before I let him drag you back to that hell.”

“I already know I can survive hell,” Barry whispers in return, though still touched by Jason’s sentiment. “What _doesn’t_ appeal to me is thought of you dying, least of all for my sake.”

“Hey now,” Jason chuckles, “I’ve made it this far in one piece. I was also alive and present when you warned me that your fool of a soulmate was going to have a target painted on their back for the rest of their life, so you can’t say I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.”

“I did say that, didn’t I…” he mumbles, remembering his little rant about love. To think, only yesterday he had entirely dismissed the idea of finding anyone who could save him from his curse with something as simple as a kiss. “I also said I was going to marry that fool, but I wouldn’t dream of holding you to a vow you didn’t make yourself.”

Jason is smirking at him again, brow furrowed in curiosity. “You say that as if you think marrying you would be a chore.”

“Isn’t it?”

Jason laughs and glances over at the door. After a moment of thought, he turns back to Barry and says, “If our days are numbered, then we should make the most of our time together. Fig’s a magistrate. He can officiate a marriage…”

Oddly enough, Barry isn’t all that surprised by what Jason is obviously offering. There’s a tiny voice at the back of his head that screams marriage is very much a complicated, legally binding affair that he technically doesn’t have complete control over as the heir to his father’s throne. However…

He looks into Jason’s blue-grey eyes and feels the warmth radiating from the body pressed up against his own, and for a wild moment he entertains the idea of doing what _he_ wants for a change. There’s no denying his physical attraction for the other man, nor is there any way of ignoring the level of gratitude Barry has for his savior. He made a vow, albeit in jest, and he’s more excited than anything at the prospect of marrying for love rather than political clout.

“You want to get hitched tonight?” Barry asks, giving the man one last out.

But the man doesn’t take it. Instead, he presses a kiss against the corner of Barry’s mouth and says, “I would consider it an honor to marry you.”

~***~

He conscious of this kill, but no more or less in control of his actions since before.

Again, he feels nothing—can _think_ of nothing but his opponent rolling away from a volley of ice before raising her hand to return the favor. Len’s personal motto when it comes to fighting is ‘conservation of energy’ and so he doesn’t try to dodge her projectiles. Instead, he raises a hand and pulls the moisture from the air, condensing before him like a shield. The tiny icicles either shatter on impact or fly right by his face, barely registering on his radar as he focuses on the empty space behind the guard. She doesn’t realize what he’s up to until the dagger of ice hits her, its pointed tip poking through her breast plate.

She’s jerks once from the impact before tumbling over onto her side, eyes wide with surprise, dead before she can hit the ground.

Once his task is said and done, the oppressive veil of apathy falls, chased away by the anger and disgust bubbling up inside him. With it, he drops his makeshift shield, allowing it to shatter into a thousand tiny pieces at his feet. He wishes he could break something else. Instead, he lowers his arm to his side, pivots smoothly to face his father, and says, “This is getting tedious.”

Leuis looks about as miserable as ever, tapping his right index finger against the armrest of his throne, glancing only once at Len’s fallen opponent before two guards step forward to dispose of her. “You’re holding back,” he says.

“I can’t hold back,” Len argues, trying to beat down the rage that comes with being used like a puppet yet again. “You’re the one pulling the strings.”

“When I tell you to kill someone, _you’re_ the one who determines how to go about doing that,” Leuis replies sharply. “You always attack in such… _small_ ways. You could crush a person under a mass of ice if you wanted. It’s almost as if you’re too weak or afraid to try.”

“Not afraid,” Len corrects him coolly. “I’m just not a psychopath.”

“Leniency isn’t going to do you any favors, boy. People like Zolomon want you dead. Intimidation is sometimes the best defence—”

“Speaking of Zolomon,” Len swiftly interjects, “you never did explain why you thought Lise was siding with him.”

Leuis’ face twitches in displeasure.

Len has the sudden urge to look away, to prevent himself from making direct eye contact. However, he’s always had a few screws loose when it came to self-preservation or bowing before a bigger predator. So he stares at Leuis and waits, heart hammering inside his chest, wondering what kind of horrors his father is conjuring up for Len inside his mind.

Very slowly, Leuis rises from his seat and walks down the stairs from his throne to join Len on the main floor. Len’s heart is hammering inside his chest, but he doesn’t move a muscle, even as Leuis draws closer.

He’s so very tired of having to submit to this prick.

Leuis comes to a halt just a few feet in front of him, eyes still locked with Len’s, waiting for a reaction. When Len does nothing, he tilts his chin up at his son and says, “How about this—I’ll tell you everything you want to know about your sister _if_ you tell me how you escaped all those years ago.”

That hardly seems like a fair trade, even _if_ knowledge was sometimes worth its weight in gold. Even so…the fact that Leuis has to _ask_ Len how he managed to escape the palace meant there’s so much the man still didn’t understand about his own people. That is good.

Len can use that.

Len eyes his father up and, deciding to take the plunge, says, “Swear to your deal and I’ll bite.”

“I swear.”

“Good.” Len folds his hands together in front of himself. “You first.”

“There’s nothing much to tell you,” Leuis explains, the corner of his lip curled into a sneer. “Once Zolomon was dead, his son sent a messenger—”

Len’s so shocked by that statement, he can’t help but interrupt. “What do you mean Zolomon is _dead_?”

Leuis is clearly irritated with being cut off, but his sneer only falters briefly, as if he enjoys knowing more about the situation than Len. “James Zolomon was the one who began the campaign against the humans. He and his wife had a son named Hunter shortly after their banishment, and it’s this son that is continuing his father’s work.”

Well, that’s a little …disheartening, to say the least. If someone managed to kill _this_ Zolomon, would somebody else rise to occasion to continue their work?

It’s beginning to look as though there’s no way the humans can win this war.

“His message was brief,” Leuis continues. “He requested your sister’s hand in marriage—said this would end the war if I accepted his proposal.”

“It would,” Len replies, frowning in confusion. “Why didn’t you accept?”

“You don’t know James Zolomon like I do. He was masterful at going back on his word. I knew his son wouldn’t be any different.”

“Not all sons are like their fathers,” Len replies, feeling his ire rising. “Let me guess, you probably thought Lise suggested this alliance to Zolomon because it sounded like a _diplomatic_ solution, which doesn’t suit your political tastes at all.”

“Careful,” Leuis warns him, voice low; dangerous.

Len’s too angry to listen. “You’ve always hated how sweet she is. I think this was the perfect opportunity to throw her to the wolves without looking as though you were outright killing off your rightful heir.”

“Bite your tongue!” Leuis seethes, taking a step closer, eyes flashing.

And Len does, but only because he’s said all that needs to be said.

He wonders how Leuis’ people feel about his refusal to make peace with the Zolomons.

It takes a short while for Leuis to collect himself again, breathing heavily through his nose as he tries to rein in his emotions. Once composed, he says, “Tell me how you left.”

Len takes a slow, deep breath of his own, thinking back on a time he so desperately wished he could forget.

Leuis’ men came for Len when he had just become a man. He was simply imprisoned in a room at first as Leuis attempted to subdue him with the promise of power. Then the beatings came when Len resisted his commands, followed inevitably by Leuis’ special brand of mental manipulation when Len subsequently demonstrated how talented he was at slipping out of the palace. By the end of the year, he found himself locked up in a tower, trapped in a haze not too dissimilar from the one he was under now. Life in the world below was hell.

Or it would be, if it hadn’t been for Lise.

Leuis never formally introduced them. Lise had a knack for showing up unexpectedly whenever their father was trying to teach him a ‘lesson’, and once Leuis got around to banning her from interrupting these lesson, Lise took to slipping into his room at night. She would feed him information freely about anything and everything he wanted to know about the world, claiming herself to be his friend for the simple reason that they both hated Leuis with the same passion. It was no secret they were both terrified of him.

Len liked her. But he forgot about her for a while when Leuis decided to keep his brain subdued 24/7. He became a mindless peon, trapped in an eternal darkness.

Until Lise saved him.

“There’s nothing much to tell you,” Len begins, anger giving way to a sense of satisfaction as he recalls how easy it had been. “We made a voiw. She promised to always help me in any way she safely could if I swore never to kill her or take part in her passing. Even then, she knew you’d do anything to get rid of her, that you might possibly use me to do it. We both understood that I was her replacement.”

Leuis’ eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, no doubt annoyed that his children were able to bond so well behind his back.

“One night,” Len continues, “I could hear her voice through the haze. She told me that if I stayed, she would die. And just like that, the trance ended. I fled before anyone realized I wasn’t a dummy anymore. That’s the long and short of it, I’m afraid.”

Leuis doesn’t say anything. He begins clenching and unclenching his hands again as he turns away, slowly mounting the stairs to his throne. Once settled, he says, “She’s too much of a coward to save you a second time, boy.”

“I don’t mind,” Len drawls. “I imagine you’re terrified she’ll take Zolomon up on her offer, and I think you’re trying to prepare me to kill her, because if anyone else does, another family will finally be able to stake a claim to the throne. It’s too bad that can’t happen now. Your legacy begins and ends with you.”

There’s a fire in Leuis eyes that promises immeasurable pain. In fact, he’s practically vibrating with anger, so incensed he’s incapable of saying a word. He looks all the world as though he’s about to explode.

There’s a sliver of fear in Len’s heart from seeing his father like this, but it’s easy to ignore when he considers how epically he and his sister have managed to screw the old man over. The universe itself conspired against Leuis when it enabled Len to uphold his oath against all odds.

He’s waiting for Leuis to punish him for his transgressions when, of course, the whole world goes dark again.

Whatever happens to him now, he’s just glad Lise made it out alive.

~***~

As weak as his legs are, Barry is able to hobble through the kitchen and into the quaint dining hall of the inn with Jason’s assistance, where he is then deposited at a small table by the wall farthest from the windows. There’s a young couple already in there, chatting quietly with John Bruce and Robert by the front door, and the little blond boy from before now sitting on the stool by the empty hearth, munching away at an apple. Jeremiah Fig appears to be telling him a story, although he’s interrupted when Jason gently touches his elbow and takes him aside.

Maeve, the owner of the inn, comes out shortly with a mug of water and a plate of boiled vegetables and mutton. She sets the food down before Barry and beams when he digs right in, not realizing how incredibly famished he is until the smell of cooked meat hits him like a stone wall. He hasn’t had a meal in ages. After all, he was immortal until today. Finding sustenance was never a priority for him.

Maeve returns with a second plate for Jason once Fig concludes their conversation and leaves. However, he’s only just settled into the seat beside Barry and tucked into his meal when the magistrate returns, a large rolled of parchment paper and a small writing case tucked under his arm.

“To be clear,” Fig says as he hands the parchment over to Barry, “even if you marry outside your kingdom, your union should be recognized as legally binding when you return home. Will marrying without your father’s approval be a problem, your highness?”

He has a feeling Clifford Devoe is going to blow his top when he catches wind of this, but Barry will cross that bridge when he gets there. “My father trusts my judgement.”

“Very well. I’m assuming neither of you have already entered into a marriage with someone else? All marriage contracts are final and any previous arrangement will therefore immediately invalidate this union.”

They both shake their heads.

“Then do either of you have any questions?”

“What are the requirements for this union?” Barry asks as he finally unrolls the marriage contract. There’s a brief paragraph that contains the basic details of the marriage, such as the officiant and location of the ceremony, followed by a space for the date and their three signatures—and that of at least two witnesses. At the very top of the contract is also the Baron’s crest, which is simply a stag standing in the shadow of a tree.

There’s an exact replica of the contract under the first.

“Nothing more than an oath and a few signatures,” the magistrate explains. “One copy is for you and the other is for our records. Normally, we would publicly announce your intent to marry a week in advance of the signing, but this is more of a common practice than absolute law in this county, and I am able to overlook that requirement at my digression. Since time is wasting and announcing your marriage would be detrimental to your plans of escape, I hope you don’t mind if begin sometime after your meal?”

Barry has butterflies in his stomach as he realizes the significance of what he’s about to do, but he’s hardly deterred. He simply nods in understanding, sets the contracts down on the table, and continues his meal. In the meantime, Fig wanders off to find himself a pint of ale and settles back down by the empty hearth where he resumes the story he was trying to tell his young companion earlier.

After they’ve each polished off their plates, Maeve clears the table while her husband ushers their son upstairs. The young couple from before has long since retreated to their own room, and John Bruce is relaxing at the table adjacent to theirs, cleaning out his rifle. Barry sits there anxiously, waiting for the penny to drop. He feels like chaos is about to rain down upon them any moment now.

He starts when he feels a hand on his thigh under the table, but it’s only Jason, giving him a squeeze to hopefully calm him down. “Are you alright with this?” his companion asks, keeping his face neutral, as if he doesn’t want, in any way, to influence Barry’s honest opinion.

“Of course,” he says, overlaying Jason’s hand with his own. “I don’t have to stand up for this, do I?”

“Not at all,” Fig replies as he returns to the table, taking up the seat across from them. Reaching into the inner breast pocket of his coat, he produces a small blue notebook and begins thumbing through the pages.

Barry’s heartbeat stutters at the sight of the book.

It reminds him of Cisco.

He squeezes Jason’s hand a little harder as Robert and Maeve return, each taking up a seat at John’s table. They all wait in silence for Fig to find he appropriate notes.

When he does, he clears his throat and says, “This will be brief. Please, each of you take a hand and follow my instructions.”

Barry pulls Jason’s hand up off his thigh and links it with his own on top of the table. He looks over at his future partner, heart aching a little less so now, and tries to focus on Jason’s blue eyes. Predictably, Jason smiles at him with all the warmth of summer, and suddenly all the tension dissipates in Barry’s body.

Whatever happens to them after tonight, Barry will always have this moment.

Fig turns to Jason first. “Your full name, sir?”

“Jason Peter Garrick.”

“And you, your highness?”

“Bartholomew Henry Allen,” he replies.

“Very well.” Fig glances back down at his notebook, following his script. “Do you, Jason, take Bartholomew Henry Allen to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have him and to hold him, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

Jason strokes his thumb over the back of Barry’s knuckles. His voice is low and soothing as he rumbles out a gentle, “I do.”

“Do you swear to honour him as your partner all the days of your life, to treat him as your equal in all things, and to never partake of his passing?”

“I swear.”

Fig fixes his gaze on Barry. “Do you, Bartholomew, take Jason Peter Garrick to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have him and to hold him, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

For a moment, Barry feels utterly electric.

He feels a surge of something powerful running from the crown of his head and down his spine to the very cradle of his pelvis. It’s a delicious kind of thrill that brings a small smile to his face, one that fortunately only trips him up for a fraction of second before he collects himself and says, “I do.”

“Do you swear to honour him as your partner all the days of your life, to treat him as your equal in all things, and to never partake of his passing?”

“I swear.”

Satisfied, Fig cranes his head toward their witnesses. “Jason and Bartholomew, through their vows today, have declared their consent to matrimony. By the power vested in me, I now pronounce this union final.” Glancing back at the newly wedded couple, he finishes the ceremony off with: “You may seal this union with a kiss.”

Jason reaches over with his free hand to gently cup Barry’s face and do just that.

That electrifying sensation returns, cut cruelly short when they’re forced to pull away as Fig opens his writing case, producing his feather pen and inkwell. Barry is handed the pen first with which to sign both copies of their wedding contract, then Jason, and finally the magistrate. The papers are then handed over to Robert so that the three witnesses can sign them before Maeve wanders back into her kitchen to collect a jug of what she proclaims to be a most excellent batch of mulled wine.

Once everything is said and done, Barry is handed both a rolled up parchment containing the details of his marriage and a glass of what is indeed an excellent batch of warm mulled wine, with which to toast the longevity of said marriage.

Altogether, it’s a remarkably small and simple affair, but Barry still feels stupidly giddy after the toast is complete and his various companions begin collecting themselves for the night. He’s so happy, in fact, he doesn’t mind Jason’s offer to carry him up the stairs. Nor does he mind the fact that Maeve only provides them with the key to only one bedroom.

“I can sleep by the window,” Jason offers after he toes open the door, carries Barry over to the bed, and leans down to deposit him on top of the quilt. However, all Barry can see by the window is a wooden chair and a small writing table, upon which Jason had evidently earlier placed his satchel and saddle bags.

“Good grief, don’t you _dare_ ,” Barry protests, grabbing Jason by the wrist when his companion moves to straighten up again. “I mean, I understand it if you need more time, but please don’t hold back for my sake. Honestly, the consummation is supposed to be the best part.”

This startles a laugh out of Jason, who gives Barry a slow once over, eyes half-lidded, clearly tempted by what he sees. After a moment, he asks, “You’re not too sore?”

Barry bends his right knee feebly. The muscles still feel weak, but blessedly there’s no pain. “Not at all,” he says, “but we’ll play it by ear. I guess the only downside to this is you’re going to have to do all the heavy lifting.”

Jason laughs again as he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it across the room toward the chair. He misses it by a long shot, but he pays it no mind, now working open the buttons of his shirt. “It would be my pleasure,” he says as he slowly reveals himself, pale skin glowing in the moonlight that pours into the room through their tiny window. Barry eyes the black tattoo on Jason’s collarbone and the remarkably long gash above his right hip before the other man descends upon him, wondering how long it will take him to coax the story behind either item out of his new husband.

As in all things Barry has seen thus far, Jason behaves like an utter gentleman in the bedroom, moving slowly and calmly, hands and mouth attentive, carefully divesting Barry of his clothes before kissing his way down between his husband’s legs. Barry just about flies apart at his ministrations, pressing a hand against his mouth, head tipped back against the pillow as Jason brings him to precipice of pleasure before gently easing him back down again. He’s a horrible tease, but he cleverly distracts Barry from the pain of preparation and, inevitably, penetration, which pays them both off in spades when Jason finally rocks between Barry’s legs, pressing kisses against his face and throat.

It’s only by some small miracle that Barry doesn’t scream when he orgasms, although his chest is heaving like a race horse’s as Jason finishes off with a final roll of his hips. Barry gets a three second reprieve before Jason is kissing him on the lips, stealing what little of his breath remains. However, deliriously happy and weary in the best way imaginable, Barry simply doesn’t have the energy to complain. Instead, he tangles his fingers in Jason’s hair and gives as good as he gets, until the last of Jason’s strength seeps from his body and he finally collapses down beside Barry on the bed.    

If Barry’s legs felt weak before, they’re as flimsy as a willow branch in the breeze now. He hasn’t had much sex in his life, but even with his limited experience, he can tell that was a dazzling performance. It’s the best he’s ever had, in fact, which is a double blessing considering how long he’s had to go without.

After Jason’s finally wound himself down from his high, he reaches over to tug Barry closer, tucking him up against his side. Barry gratefully curls up beside him, feeling warm and sore in the most delightful way as exhaustion finally tips him over into the realm of dreams.

He dreams of home.

Barry doesn’t dream often besides the occasional nightmare, so this is a real treat. He envisions his mother as she was before she built the barrier, sitting beside him on the window seat in his old bedroom, carding her hand through his hair as he showed her how well he could read. She was always proud of him, even when he only made the smallest achievements.

Curiously, he also dreams of Len briefly before he wakes. Or, rather, he _remembers_ Len, their lips connected as they curled up together, suspended in the water. In his dream, he forgets that he is free or that Len betrayed him; forgets how disappointed he was when he remained unchanged after his many kisses with the sidhe. Instead, he feels at peace, as if he’s found sanctuary in the most extraordinary place.

That feeling turns to anger and guilt when he wakes, though more with himself considering he was now married to a better man—a man who rouses Barry the following morning with the barest brush of his lips against his naked shoulder, already dressed and out of bed, having collected a basin of water and set it down upon the bedside table. Barry banishes the vestiges of his dream from his mind as Jacob helps to clean him up and dress him for the day, the sky still dark outside. His husband tells him John Bruce is taking them across the border in just under an hour.

It’s a small relief that they aren’t making the trip on horseback, because Barry doesn’t know how well he would fare after last night’s performance. Instead, they find John sitting in an open wagon on the now empty main street, Phillip and a white-maned Haflinger hooked up to the front.

John’s got a large, brown blanket in the back, which he throws over Barry and Jason once they lie down, Jason’s bags tucked between them, trying to relax and stay quiet as they start off on their journey. It’s cool enough outside at this hour that Barry doesn’t feel stifled under the blanket, and yet he still has a trouble breathing, his chest tight from worry. Does Eobard know he’s missing yet? He came so quickly when Len tried to remove him from the lake. Even if he hasn’t noticed Barry’s absence, there’s still the possibility that they might run into one of the Baron’s patrols and wind up alerting Eobard to his escape indirectly. There's just too many things that can go wrong with this endeavour.

He doesn’t know how long they travel before the wagon is pulled to an abrupt halt. John doesn’t say a thing, so neither one of them speaks. Barry’s heart feels as though it's in his throat anyway, so terrified that he slides his hand over to Jason and curls it over his elbow, clinging to him in fear as they wait quietly for fate to pass judgement on them.

After what feels like an eternity, the wagon rocks gently from side to side as someone climbs back onto the front seat. Barry pulls down the blanket just enough to spot John sitting there, taking up the reins once again before continuing on their way. Very quietly, the man says, “The way ahead is clear. But please, stay down for now.”

Barry ducks his head under the blanket again, shifting to get comfortable.

Jason takes this opportunity to scoot closer to him, adjusting his arm so that he can wrap it over Barry’s shoulders. Mouth pressed to the shell of Barry’s ear, he says, “I know you’re scared, but it looks like we’re going to be alright.”

“Anything can still happen,” Barry mutters, hating himself for suffering from such a simple fear. He knows he’s capable of being braver than this.

“Try to focus on something else.” There’s a moment's pause before his husband can think of a way to distract him. “Do you think your family is going to like me?”

Barry almost snorts at the question, amused that such a typical early-relationship question would pop up post-wedding instead. “Don’t worry, any husband of mine is welcome in our home. However, there _are_ a few of my father’s advisers who I just know are going to freak out when they realize I broke protocol.”

“I’m a diplomatic guy,” Jason quips. “I think I can figure out a way to sway them to my side.”

 _“Shhush_ ,” John hisses.

They fall silent again at their guide’s insistence. Barry closes his eyes, too, trying to force himself to fall asleep again to prevent his nerves from getting the better of him. Jason continues to hold him close for support, thank god, eyes wide open but distant as he losses himself to thought.

Before too long, the wagon rolls to a halt again. This time, John tugs their blanket aside and says, “Congratulations. You’ve made it.”

“Really?” Barry asks, incredulous. He sits up and stares back the way they came. Of course, there are no natural border markings nearby, just a long dirt road that winds itself through a cornfield toward the north.

“Not a patrol in sight,” John sighs, as if he finds this a little curious. He hops down from the front and begins unhooking the Haflinger from the wagon. “The Baron’s men must be occupied with the fires that have been cropping up lately. This is as clean a break as anyone could hope for, really.”

Apparently, they get to keep the wagon, because John leaves Phillip hooked up and comes to the back to grab his saddle. Jason, meanwhile, climbs into the front seat and takes up the reins, prepared to continue them on their journey once John is on his way.

The fact that John is leaving them is a curious thing, which prompts Barry to asks, “Are you going back?”

“Of course,” he chuckles, adjusting the strap of his saddle. “Overlord or not, it’s still my home. And there will be plenty of people to smuggle over the border in the future.” He nods his head at Barry politely and then hops onto his horse. “Take care, your highness.”

Barry waves at him, grateful beyond words for his help. But instead he just sits there in disbelief, as useless as he’s been since the beginning of this trip, stunned by the sheer level of kindness he’s been shown so far. Even before this trip—before _Len_ , he was offered help from wayward travellers in the Apagorev. It seemed, for the most part, that humanity was something to be proud of.

Jason snaps Phillip’s reins, and they head off again, this time at a less urgent pace. Barry elects to stay in the back of the wagon instead of trying to climb into the front seat with his husband, but he still decides to strike up a conversation with the other man. After all, there’s no longer any reason to remain quiet.

“ ‘ _Garrick_ ’, huh?” is what Barry decides to open with. “I’m pretty sure my father’s second cousin married into the Garrick family.”

“Victoria Garrick?” Jason supplies.

“I’m not sure.”

There’s a small stretch of silence before Jason picks up the thread of their conversation again. “They’re good people, the Garricks…They adopted me when I was ten.”

“Oh.” He feels bad for prodding. But, then again, this _is_ his husband. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve learned this long ago. “If you don’t mind my asking, are they alright? I know they served in Palmer’s court.”

“My adoptive mother died in childbirth when I was fifteen. My father, on the other hand, died during Zolomon’s attack.” There’s another pause here, just as weighty as the last. Sadly, Jason says, “My two younger siblings were captured in the ensuing madness. I don’t know what happened to them.”

“I’m sorry,” Barry says, feeling horrible for prying.

“It’s hardly your fault,” Jason replies. “Besides, I promised myself I would build a new family to honor the old, and you’ve generously enabled me to do just that.”

A small smile graces Barry’s lips.

He was going to do everything in his power to make sure Jason didn’t feel cheated into getting sacked with him.

They chat amiably amongst themselves for the better part of the day. They stop twice so that they each nibble on some of the fresh food Maeve stuffed in their bags that morning, and then sometime late in the afternoon Barry begins to recognize the rolling hills and dense woods to the east. True to his suspicions, it isn’t too long before they round a hill and Larn comes into view, the picturesque village Barry used to visit during his annual hunting trips.

They don’t even make it into the village proper before someone recognizes him, a young shepherd named Thomas Granger who always greeted Barry whenever the prince trekked across the fields between the village and its surrounding wood. He stands leaning against the fence along the road now, squinting in disbelief at Barry until they’ve almost passed him in their wagon. When Barry waves at him in greeting, his old friend immediately takes off like a light toward the village, his straw hat blown off his head in his haste.

Jason glances back over his shoulder, searching the road behind them, obviously mistaking Thomas’ behavior for fright.

“He recognizes me,” Barry supplies, although he glances back himself to be sure. “I think news of my return is going to spread like wildfire.”

“Then we’ll only stay the night. The sooner we get you home, the safer you’ll be.”

He’s right. Since Eobard was able to cross the border, he could still track them down before they reached the sanctuary of the palace.

“We can take the unconventional route home,” Barry offers. “It will take an extra day, but the villages are more obscure, and I haven’t visited them since I was quite young. No one should recognize me there.”

“I trust your judgement,” Jason says, giving Phillip’s reins a bit of a flick to pick up the speed.

They ride into the village square to find a small group of people huddled around Thomas Granger, who is leaning forward with his hands pressed against his thighs, heaving from his run. A woman who Barry recognizes to be his mother is scolding the poor boy for leaving their sheep unattended, but she stops midsentence once she spots Barry leaning over the lip of the wagon. Beside her is Mayor Allerton, a grey haired and jovial man who looks quite speechless himself.

“Hello,” Barry says, as the wagon lurches to a halt. He’s not sure what a person is supposed to say once they’ve been returned from a long stint in a veritable prison.

The damn finally breaks, and everyone tries to speak to him at once, crowding in around the back of the wagon in an overeager swarm, before Mayor Allerton takes a deep breath and bellows at the lot of them to take a step back. Jason looks marginally impressed as he hops off his seat and circles around the wagon to help Barry out.

“We must send word to your father,” Allerton says once Barry is hoisted out of the wagon and propped up against Jason’s side. “What a blessed day this is, your highness.”

“Send a messenger,” Barry agrees, “but the details of my journey home must remain ca secret.”

“Of course, of course!” Allerton looks over his shoulder toward Mr. Fawcett, the local innkeeper, whom he eagerly waves over. “We’ll have a room prepared for you tonight. Are you injured? You seem unwell.”

Ironically, his legs were feeling stronger than they had even the day before, if still a bit stiff. He knows he won’t be able to walk around unassisted for a few more days yet, but he’s on a sharp upward trajectory.

“I’m on the mend,” he replies, an answer he feels encompasses more than just his physical ailments.

Jason shares a secretive smile with him, a small quirk at the corner of his lips. And then together they’re herded into the bar attached to Mr. Fawcett’s inn, where they spend the evening with good spirits and in good company, one day closer to Barry’s long overdue journey home.

~***~

Cisco never thought he’d be living a life on the run.

Technically, he’s not on the run from the _law_ , but Eobard considered himself a higher authority all his own, and Cisco didn’t doubt Lise’s warning to stay clear of the greater public for at least the next few months if he wanted to survive to the end of the year. He had no idea what was coming at the end of this seemingly arbitrary time period, but he was silently determined to journey back to the capital to inform King Henry of his son’s situation once her time was, consequences bedamned. Once the first snow fell, he would do whatever he needed to set things right.

In the meantime, his attempt at keeping the firs of courage burning in his heart is continuously dampened by Lise’s edgy behavior. After escaping the fire that ravaged the Apagorev forest, Lise takes him across the barrier to his homeland where they then spend most of their time on the move, camping out in wooded areas and only braving a trip to any neighboring villages when she’s feeling up to the trip. She’s lost her lustre since the fire, although he doesn’t know why, and it pains him to see her like this. All he knows is that she needs to keep clear of Eobard, and he can hardly argue with logic like that.

It’s been a little over a month since they fled the Apagorev and tonight they are ducking into a small bar in one of the village ports along the river. It’s easier for Lise to get around places like these, because hardly anyone stays long enough to consider the little pubs and inns their home, which means she doesn’t need an invitation to enter. In fact, clearly fatigued with living on the edge for so many weeks, she doesn’t even wait until she’s through the door before she tosses back the hood of her black cloak, completely ignoring the lingering looks from some of the burlier patrons.

Cisco gets a few looks himself, but they tend toward confusion once they realize he’s with the tall, dark goddess. It used to bother him having his sum worth weighed with a single glance, but his pride has gotten over it since the first two times Lise broke someone’s fingers or nose for either touching without permission or outwardly asking what Cisco had that the rest of the male population was clearly lacking.

Surprisingly, no one accosts them tonight. Also surprisingly, the place is packed well beyond what they’ve encountered in the past as well. In fact, a few people don’t look as though they belong there at all, dressed as richly as some of them are, but since everyone looks to be in a good mood, Cisco figures they’re probably just celebrating something.

People part before Lise as she makes a beeline for the bar counter, Cisco following close behind in her wake lest the crowd closes upon him like the sea. The barhop passes her a drink before she can even open her mouth to speak—and then, seeming to notice Cisco, pours him one too without question. And, alright, that seems really weird.

Thankfully, Lise notices too. She taps a tall, blond woman on the shoulder and, over the din of people laughing and singing, asks, “What’s the occasion?”

There’s a split-second of shocked silence from the woman before she grins and exclaims, “The prince is alive!”

Cisco’s heart does a small drop kick in his throat. It’s a good kick, though, the kind that precipitates further excitement as he steps forward and asks, somewhat dumbfounded, “He’s alive? As in, _back home_ and alive?”

“Came to Larn two days ago,” she explains. “He and his companion should almost be home by now. Tomorrow at latest.”

It’s Lise’s turn to look dumbfounded. “He has a companion?”

“A man?” the woman shrugs, uncertain. “I didn’t see them m’self.”

Cisco can tell Lise is excited by this additional news. She grabs him by the wrist before he can try his celebratory beer and makes a beeline back toward the door. Once they’re out in the stumble air again, he asks, “Where are we going?”

“I need to know if it’s Len,” she replies, turning a corner sharply and dragging him into an empty alleyway between a closed up shop and another pub. She pulls up short halfway through and turns back to him, politely ignoring the way he almost trips in the mud. “I need to know if he escaped my father. Can you track your friend?”

Cisco told her long ago about his peculiar talent of sensing different vibrations in the universe. He knew Barry’s signature by the back of his hand, but it was like playing a game of hot-and-cold when it came to using this power to track someone down. He usually just kept walking until their rhythm began to drown out all the rest.

“Yes and no?” he offers sheepishly. “You know how this all works.”

“Then we’ll have to do this by the process of elimination,” she replies, sliding her hand down his wrist to twine his fingers with her own. He still gets a little flutter in his stomach whenever she does that. “If he was at Larn two days ago, how far could he have gotten between here and the capital?”

“That depends on which route he took. There’s the townships of Vaska and Arnt closer to the coast, and then there’s Nomaldy a little ways to the west.”

“Wonderful,” she beams, which is all the warning he gets before the ground opens up beneath him and he’s suddenly dragged down into the great unknown by a massing of writhing vines.

This won’t be the first trip to the ‘waypoints’ that Lise has taken him on, but Cisco still hasn’t gotten over the sensation of being viciously pulled through a mound of dirt before being spat out in a glowing tunnel. Lise has several supplies stashes in the many waypoints that she frequents, but thankfully she’s against the is letting him be there for more than a night or true, seemingly terrified of something lurking across the company for her home to save world.

Cisco is incredibly jealous that Lise somehow always ends these little trips without a speck of dirt on her, whereas Cisco looks as though someone recently summoned him back from the grave. His agitation must show, because she pats him gently on the check and says, “Practice makes perfect, my love,” before starting off at a brisk pace down the tunnel.

In just a few minutes, Cisco’s getting sucked into another wall before the earth regurgitates him somewhere on a beach. Then there’s sand in his eyes and mouth, and the rushing sound of waves crashing against the shore fills his ears, and he realizes they’re near the docks of Arnt.

The fresh salt air whips Lise’s robes and cloak around her. Her face is glowing in the moonlight, as she turns to him and asks, “Hot or cold?”

Cisco takes a moment to focus, rubbing the sand from his eyes before he squeezes them shut. It takes him a while to filter out Lise’s fiery rhythm and the more doldrum beat of the inhabitants of Arnt, but soon he can sense Barry’s signature through all the noise—but only faintly.

He opens his eyes again. “We are far from the mark. I wouldn’t even bother trying Vaska. Nomaldy’s far off the beaten track, but I figure he’s closer to there.”

Without question, Lise’s vines pull him under again. Cisco gets _way_ more sand in his face this time (among other unmentionable places), but at least Lise graciously affords him a moment to breath again before she takes his hand in hers and leads him across the kingdom in a heartbeat.

The second time he enters the world above, he knows they’re exactly where they need to be. He can practically feel Barry’s rhythm burning in his veins, stronger even than Lise’s.

“He’s here,” Cisco says as he viciously scrubs his hands through his hair, shaking out as much dirt as he possibly can. “I just know it.”

They’re crouching together in the wood surrounding Nomaldy, standing high enough on the slopped earth that they can gaze down into the main street with no problem at all. Nomaldy on has a shop, a church, an inn, and a few houses, hardly being a must-see for any royal visitor. Even so, there’s no mistaking Barry’s signature.

He’s somewhere down there, at least a day or so away from home.

As they creep down into the village, Cisco realizes he can hear people singing. It seems like everyone is crammed into the main floor of the inn, enjoying a drink or two like everyone else in the country.

They slip out of the bushes and walk over to one of the back windows, giving the dining room a cursory lookover before deciding whether they want to head inside themselves. Its packed alright—but Cisco doesn’t see Barry anywhere.

“My brother isn’t here,” Lise says, brow furrowed in confusion.

“It’s getting pretty late,” Cisco replies, jabbing his thumb up toward the second storey. “Maybe they’ve turned in for the night?”

Lise smiles and pats his cheek affectionately again. Then she takes a step to the side, out of the view of the window, as her vines writhe up the side of the whitewashed building. Dropping her cloak, she tells him to wait there and then begins her ascent.

Politely, Cisco takes a few steps back and keeps his eyes on the ground. Or, at least, he tries to. There’s a long stretch of silence from Lise before she tumbles halfway down the vines, hands scrambling for purchase before she realizes she doesn’t have a long way to fall and lets go instead. Cisco doesn’t have the chance to ask her what’s wrong before she grabs him by the arm and drags him into the forest.

He waits until she’s yanked him behind a tree before carefully extracting his arm from her godlike grip. Confused, he laughs a little and says, “Did you get the wrong room?”

He feels stupid for asking when she turns her ashen face to him. She normally looks pale when she’s feeling down, but right now she looks about as white as a ghost.

“What is it?” he asks, humor quickly turning to dread. “Is Barry alright?”

“There’s a man up there with him…” she says faintly, vaguely gesturing to her throat. She looks like she’s in shock. “He bears the mark of Zolomon.”

Cisco’s in shock, too. “No way,” he breathes, shaking his head. “Barry wouldn’t side with Zolomon, not after holding out against him for so long.”

“I don’t think he knows who his company is,” she replies. “He’s… _happy_ with him. He called his companion ‘Jason’.”

“Jason?” Cisco asks, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Who’s Jason? Another relative of James Zolomon?”

“I think it’s a pseudonym,” she clarifies.

Rubbing his mouth in agitation, Cisco glances over her shoulder and into the darkness of the forest. He’s having trouble processing the implication that his best friend is unwittingly in the company of his worst enemy—that he’s _happy_ with him, whatever that means…

…

Oh…

Oh _god_ no.

There’s a beat of silence between them before Cisco pivots sharply on his heel and storms back toward the inn. “I’m going to kill him. I _have_ to kill. How _dare_ he—”

Lise catches him by the collar of his shirt and drags him back behind the tree, slamming him up against the trunk hard enough to rattle his teeth in his head. It’s the first time she’s ever hurt him. The way she curls her fist in the material of his shirt gives him pause.

“ _How_?” she hisses, gold eyes flashing. “He’s killed tens of _thousands_ , Cisco, and now he’s successfully invaded your land. There is _nothing_ standing between you and him anymore.” She finally stares past him toward the village. “There’s nothing standing between him and your friend either, so please don’t jeopardize his life by showing Zolomon’s hand too soon.”

There’s wisdom in her words, and yet Cisco’s eyes still burn with tears of frustration. The war is far from over now, and poor Barry will be the first to go once Zolomon decides to abandon this charade.

“I can’t do nothing,” Cisco chokes out. “Lise, he’s my friend…”

Her grip on his shirt slackens marginally. She licks her lips, lost in thought. After an unbearable stretch of silence, she focuses her gaze on him once again and says, “You’re going to follow them back to the capital. _Unseen_.”

He sudden support certainly sparks his own enthusiasm again. “And then what?”

“I’m going to get help. Once the cavalry arrives, _then_ we’ll act.”

This isn’t exactly the most detailed plan he’s jumped in on, but he and Barry have committed themselves to trials of pure stupidity on nothing less than a whim before, so he can hardly judge. Besides, he likes the idea of cavalry. Having more people at hand in case of an attack makes him less of a prime target.

He nods, still uncertain but absolutely willing to try, watching with the same level of fascination when Lise immediately begins her decent into the earth. Between one breath and the next, she disappears completely from sight, the ground mending itself again in her absence.

There’s a brief ache in his heart from having parted with her, then he shakes his head and weighs the pros and cons of spending the night in the forest. Alternatively, he could pay someone to take them into their home for the evening, although they might wonder why he’s avoiding the inn.

Divided, Cisco glances back around the tree at the village—and falls back in his haste to scramble away from what he sees.

Standing at the edge of the forest, black clock draped over his shoulders like a spectre from the great beyond, is none other than Eobard Thawne. He’s still wearing Harrison’s face, his expression set with grim determination, taking one slow step after another toward Cisco with feline grace.

Cisco clambers to his feet but refuses to run, for the simple reason that he doesn’t want to turn his back on the madman. Instead, he takes a step back, then another, keeping pace with his would-be murderer. “Stay away from me!” he snaps, voice wavering.

Surprisingly, Eobard stops dead in his tracks. His gaze lingers briefly on the earth where Lise made her grand disappearance before snapping back to Cisco. “That woman doesn’t know when to quit,” he mutters.

“She’s amazing,” Cisco retorts, more on impulse than anything else. Though, he really _does_ think she’s amazing. “And she’s gone now, so you—you can’t get her.”

“Actually, there’s nowhere she _can_ go that I won’t find her,” Eobard replies. He eyes Cisco up, brow slightly creased, looking as though he’s in turmoil over Cisco’s continued existence.

Cisco doesn’t like that look. Eobard wore that same expression the last time they crossed paths and it didn’t turn out too well for Cisco.

After a stretch of awkward silence, Eobard follows up with: “You’re stronger than I gave you credit for.”

“Is…that supposed to be a compliment?” Cisco asks, now baffled on top of terrified . He doesn’t want his death to be the punchline to some horrible joke. That would just be the worst.

Unfortunately, Eobard doesn’t have an answer for him. There’s simply another dreadful stretch of silence between them before Cisco is blinded by a flash of light. Then he’s being moved by forces unseen, the wind whipping all around him, his sense of gravity flying off into the aethers of whatever dimension Eobard has dragged him into.

But at least he isn’t dead.

He thinks.

~***~

The letter said to wait a week before moving on with their lives.

Hartley hates the idea of someone thinking they can simply dictate his emotional response to the loss of a potential friend, but, then, he’s too caught up in the loss of said potential friend to care.

 He spends most of his days hiding out in Mick’s hovel of a home, wondering what happened in the forest and why Len didn’t meet up with them after their apparent escape. The only evidence he has that they (probably) reached the lake is that they were both soaking wet when they left the Apagorev. Beyond that, they have nothing else to go by.

After they’ve reached Mick’s house and the second week passes without any sign of their wayward companion, Hartley gets the feeling Mick is starting to feel a little anxious himself. But not in the way most people do. No, Mick is made of stone where most people are made of flesh and blood, hardened by war and hollowed out by all the horrors that come with it. But there’s still a sliver of a heart in him. He’s even less communicative than ever and doesn’t touch a drop of alcohol—which is really the most revealing fact of all, because once Mick passes through this phase of disbelief and grief, Hartley just knows he’s going to start downing his liquor like he’s trying to fulfill a personal vendetta against his liver.

When the third week comes around, Hartley’s prediction is proven right. Mick stumbles home one evening drunk enough that he can’t find the front door. He winds up sleeping off the night in the bushes for the simple reason that leaving the door wide open miraculously doesn’t help him one iota getting into the building and because Hartley could never in his wildest dreams haul someone of Mick’s bulk across the threshold alone.

By the fourth week, something both wondrous and absolutely terrifying occurs, which is that Mick sobers up. He also spends every night locked up in his smithy, doing god-knows-what. Hartley knows he conducts his regular business in there during the day, but what possible reason he could have for hammering away until the wee hours of the morning are beyond him. If it wasn’t for the fact that Mick was known for beating nosy parkers to a pulp, Hartley’s sure they would’ve had more than a few noise complaints by now.

This strange behavior of Mick’s continues well into the fifth week and about halfway through the sixth—by which point they receive an unexpected guest.

Hartley just about screams when he wakes up that morning to find a strange woman standing over him where he’s lying on a straw mattress in the corner of the room. Mick, of course, is still hammering away in his smithy, which means Hartley has the unfortunate job of determining whether this woman is friend or foe. The golden eyes and ethereal beauty suggests she’s a sidhe, which are usually more trouble than they’re worth, but the fact that she’s loitering in the middle of Mick’s goddamn house means she has a standing invitation, which is probably the highest honor anyone can be given in these parts.

So, Hartley slots her into the box labelled ‘friend’ at the back of his mind, pushes his spectacles up his nose, and says, “Good morning.”

The woman glances out the front window at the dawning light, mouth twisted in a displeased moue, as if she’s of the opinion that there’s nothing particularly _good_ about this morning. Then she returns her gaze to him, smiles sweetly, and says, “You must be Hartley.”

“Yes,” he replies, baffled that she knows him already. He figures she must be an acquaintance of Len’s. “And you are?”

“Lisamarie,” she trills at him, her eyes creeping to the back door leading to the smithy. As if on cue, Mick’s hammer falls silent. “I’m Lenny’s sister.”

Sure enough, Mick knows something is amiss. He bursts through the door not five seconds later, eyes ‘Lisamarie’ up, and grunts, “Where is he?”

Lisamarie’s sunny demeanor slowly drops. It’s kind of amazing how she can look like the daughter of summer one second and then a grieving woman the next, shoulders slumping in defeat.

Hartley’s heart plummets into his stomach, because he can only think of one reason why Len’s sister would be grieving—but then the woman alleviates his worst fear somewhat when she says, “My father’s taken him prisoner.” She glances at Hartley again before returning her attention to Mick. Quietly, she asks, “Can you help?”

“Yes,” Hartley says without hesitation.

Mick glances back over his shoulder and into his smithy before he smirks at Lisamarie and says, “Give me a few hours.”

~***~

It’s nightfall by the time they reach the capital, passing through the quiet streets undetected under a blanket of stars.

It’s a small blessing, too, because Barry is getting a little exhausted from all the impromptu celebrations that occur once someone realizes who he is. He thought for sure no one in little Nomaldy would know what ‘Prince Bartholomew’ was supposed to look like, but given how close the village was situated to the capital, it was stupid to think nobody ever made a trip to the city. He’s just grateful Jason is able to step up for him when he declines yet another round of beer, acting every bit the guard Barry supposes a loving husband should be.

He’s grateful, too, that his father’s guards are discrete in permitting them access through the palace gates. Of course, Barry knows word of his return has reached the king by now. His stomach is a knot of excitement when he’s led into his father’s private drawing room behind the grand hall by a servant and politely told to wait while King Henry is collected from his bedroom. Now that his legs are strong enough to support him, Barry paces the length of the room stiffly as he waits, Jason close beside him, always at the ready to catch him if he should fall.

Therefore, Barry feels a flicker of disappointment when Clifford Devoe happens to be the first person through the door instead of his father, eyes immediately latching onto Jason as if Clifford feels personally affronted by the other man’s existence. Barry is able to ignore him, though, when Marlize Devoe and Martin Stein quickly file into the room after him, each of them eager to welcome Barry back with open arms.

“You haven’t changed at all,” Martin breathes in open wonder, squeezing Barry’s arms with his hands after a particularly fierce hug. He’s smiling so hard, he looks like he’s about to cry. “How blessed we are to have you home again.”

Barry’s as equally close to tears now. It’s a bit of a struggle to squeeze out his response. “I can’t believe I made it back.”

“But made it back from where?” Marlize asks with open curiosity. “And what was keeping you from us? Was it Zolomon?”

“It was,” Barry replies, sobering up quickly when he realizes they’re not out of danger. “His servant, Eobard Thawne, has been using the skin of our very own Harrison Wells to pass freely in and out of the kingdom. He was my warden during my imprisonment, and I believe he might come for me again once he realizes I’ve returned home.”

Clifford waves a hand at the nearest guard, who salutes sharply and runs from the room. “Harrison Wells—or this imposter, I suppose—has been missing for several weeks now. If he returns, he will be apprehended at once.”

“Don’t underestimate him,” Barry cautions, “but don’t kill him either. I have reason to believe the real Harrison Wells is still alive inside him.”

“That Rathaway boy told us a similar story a year ago,” Marlize ponders aloud, turning to her husband. “He always had a knack for seeing through deceptions.”

“I will bring the matter up with the king tomorrow,” Clifford replies, folding his hands together behind his back as he returns his attention to Jason. In his usual condescending drawl, he says, “Our thanks for seeing the prince safely home, sir. We can put you up for the night and then discuss proper compensation for your efforts in the morning.”

Jason arches an eyebrow in mild defiance as a guard steps forward to escort him out.

“He’s not going anywhere,” Barry interjects, watching Clifford’s carefully as he then says, “This is my husband.”

The look of pure indignation on the man’s face is one of Barry’s secret delights. It’s a true rarity, one he savors even more when the corner of Marlize’s mouth quirks into a smile and she shares a knowing look with him, all too aware of her husband’s overbearance when it came to matters of pomp and circumstance.

“I doubt that,” Clifford retorts, struggling for a moment to compose himself. “There is a certain _protocol_ , your highness, when it comes to marriages within the royal family, and I don’t believe anyone in this country would be foolish enough to go through with such a ceremony without your father’s explicit approval.”

“We did the best we could, given the circumstances.” Barry holds his hand out to Jason, who is already rummaging through his satchel for the marriage contract. This, in turn, he hands over to Clifford. Martin, of course, inches closer to his fellow advisor to read the paper over his shoulder. “The last time I checked, my marriage is legally binding regardless of whose kingdom I find myself married in.”

“Of course,” Clifford agrees smoothly. Too smoothly, in fact. “That simplifies the matter of marrying you off to foreign royalty.” He gives the contract one last look before he turns it around to show the rest of the room. Tapping his finger over the witness signatures, he says, “This is missing any annotation of whether or not these three individuals were also attestants of the consummation. In fact, there’s nothing here to suggest your marriage was consummated at all— _Ow_.” He flinches when his wife swats his arm, scowling at her as he says, “Well it’s _true_.”

“Unless, of course, the highest authority of the two families entering into said marriage agrees to overlook that little technicality,” comes a voice from the door leading to the king’s quarters—and sure enough, there stands King Henry, his father. “And unless your husband, Barry, thinks his family would disapprove of your union, I’m satisfied to save you the embarrassment of proving your loyalty to one another.”

“I defer to your wisdom and authority,” Jason replies, smiling.

Barry, on the other hand, is barely registering what his father is saying. He can’t exactly run yet, but he walks briskly across the room into his father’s waiting arms, squeezing the old man hard against his chest. He starts crying almost immediately, face buried in his father’s neck, so relieved to see the man alive and well he can hardly think of anything else.

Henry embraces him just as fiercely, pressing a kiss against the side of his head. His voice is tight as he says, “I never thought I was going to see you again.”

Barry can’t speak. He’s too emotional to string a coherent sentence together. It’s therefore something of a relief when he hears Martin ushering his fellow advisors out of the room. He doesn’t have the energy to field any more questions tonight.

Eventually, they reluctantly pull apart. Henry kisses him on the face one last time before turning his gaze to Jason, the only other occupant of the room at the moment. “I believe an explanation is in order for your unexpected union, but I trust my son’s judgement, and I think this matter can wait until the morning. For now, you have my eternal gratitude for seeing my boy home safely again.” He squeezes Barry’s shoulder, as if he’s afraid he’s not real. To his son, he says, “I’m assuming, of course, this man had a hand in returning you to me?”

“He was vital,” Barry replies, reaching up to squeeze his father’s hand in return.

“Then you have my blessing,” Henry says softly. He takes a step back and gestures to his secret entrance. “Please, join me upstairs. I won’t sleep until I know where you’ve been and how you were kept from me. Your disappearance has haunted my every waking moment.”

“It’s a long story,” Barry sighs, “and it’s going to require a substantial stretch of the imagination.”

Henry gives him a curious look, but holds his questions until they’ve retreated to his private quarters, where they settle together on the lounge seats by the balcony windows and rest under the pale moonlight.

Then Barry begins the cathartic process of recounting his harrowing tale.

~***~

Though the tunnels that connect the waypoints are considered a part of the world below, they are technically sandwiched between the two dimensions. And although these tunnels are sometimes the extent to which most humans travellers see the ‘world below’, it is the unfortunate and truly misleading name for her home. Her world is not some crypt or chasm buried deep beneath the earth’s surface. It sits just on the other side of gravity from the world above, so that when Lise and her entourage exit the tunnel on the ‘other’ side, Hartley and Mick are understandably dumbfounded to find themselves standing under a dark sky illuminated by the undulating canopy of an aurora borealis.

She allows them a moment to bask in the beauty of the heliotrope and verdant streaks of light before she waves them over to the cut of rocks at the base of her father’s palace. There is a dark forest all around them and the smooth, white stone of the castle’s outer walls at her back; they are in a poor position to stay under cover. Len, of course, always seemed to know where someone’s gaze was focused and how far outside he was from their field of view, but Lise is lacking in these abilities herself. Therefore, she can try getting inside through one of the old ways, but the palace halls are likely crawling with guards, and she won’t be able to slip past them unseen.

It’s fortunate then that Hartley Rathaway is with them.

He takes one of their hands in each of his own, mutters a spell under his breath, and they collectively blink from existence on the visual plane. Lise holds her other hand up in front of her face and wiggles her fingers to observe the strange effect, but, of course, she sees nothing. His spell, it would seem, makes them invisible even unto themselves.

“Don’t let go,” he warns as she tugs them toward her secret entrance, a tight squeeze between two boulders that leads directly into the main corridor behind the servants quarters. Travelling this path takes them longer as a group because of Mick’s natural (and added) bulk, but, before too long, they’re ‘in’, as Lenny would say it, and she feels marginally better about this whole ridiculous endeavour when a maid breezes past them without so much as a second glance. Hartley’s spell is a thing of beauty.

It’s no wonder Len invited him into the fold.

The first time Len was held prisoner here, he spent most of his time locked up in the tallest tower. Climbing one set of spiraling stairs after another in quick succession to get there is a feat all its own, one for which her two companions give her ample grief once they reach their destination. His old prison cell is empty save for a half-rotten wooden bed frame and a slanted desk, both covered in years worth of cobwebs and dust. While her companions bemoan the wasted trip, it’s with growing dread that Lise comes to realize the only other place Leuis could safely hold her brother is in the dungeons.

While she’s sure the word ‘dungeon’ doesn’t have a positive connotation in any civilization, Leuis’ prison takes the cake. Besides the acts of unspeakable cruelty that take place down there, the dungeon is so far beneath the surface that it’s impossible to reach without a complicated waypoint system that Lise hasn’t wholly familiarized herself with. There was only a brief period in her teenaged years when she was dumb enough to attempt a quick jump through the one waypoint she managed to find, and she wholly regrets killing off whatever innocence remained in her juvenile mind when she witnessed the level of depravity her kind was capable of down there.

“He’s in the dungeons,” she sighs, pulling the heavy door to Len’s former prison cell shut again. “Try not to look at anything too hard when we get down there.”

“Why not?” Mick asks.

“Just…trust me on this one.”

And they do, for the most part, if she’s interpreting their silence correctly.

After she’s dragged them out of the palace and back through their original waypoint into the tunnels, Hartley lowers his spell for a five minute break. As soon as he’s visible again, he wipes his hands dry on his trousers, gives Mick a particularly nasty stare for how sweaty his palm must have been, and says, “Cloaking Len as well as the rest of us is going to take a bit of maneuvering, depending on what state we find him in.”

Lise suspected they would hit a snag or two on their mission, but she still feels an unpleasant flutter in her stomach when he says that. “What do you mean?”

“I need skin-on-skin contact to cloak someone,” he explains. “One of you could move your grip to my wrist and then I can grab his hand, but if he’s unconscious, I’m going to have a hell of a time dragging him.”

“I can grab your wrist,” Mick offers. “I’ll haul his ass, too, if I have to.”

Both she and Hartley eye the peculiar cannister strapped to Mick’s back, the one that’s connected by a metal coil to the firearm in his other hand and looks like it weighs a ton, but say nothing. Lise will carry Len if she has to. She’s stronger than most human beings, after all.

Grateful that their little ‘snag’ isn’t too much of a problem, Lise is able to relax just a smidgen before Hartley joins hands with them again and mutters his spell.

The trip into the dungeons doesn’t feel much longer than any other journey through the earth, except for the fact that they must step out of the waypoint slowly, her vines pushing them gently out into the light. The dungeon is illuminated entirely by a strange blue glow, the source of which Lise has yet to determine. It is truly fortunate then that they are invisible, because as soon as they’ve passed into one of the corridors, a trio of guards turn the corner up ahead. Lise immediately presses her back up against one of the smooth stone walls and can feel Hartley—and presumably Mick—following her lead as the guards draw near.

The corridor isn’t exactly the widest space, but somehow the guards pass them by, none-the-wiser to the criminals in their midst. Lise can feel the air stirring in their wake. She holds her breath until they guards have rounded the corner at the end of the hall before she tugs her comrades onward. They have their work cut out for them in determining where exactly Len is being led.

She leads them down another spiralling stairway and along a series of corridors lined with traditional prison cells. At least half of them are occupied by men and women who have obviously seen better days, now unwashed and dressed in rags, some emaciated beyond recognition. Lise’s heart wedges itself firmly in her throat as she scans each one for some sign of her brother. It feels like both a blessing and curse when she doesn’t immediately find him here.

After they’ve checked this floor, she leads her companions down yet another spiral staircase—and yet another after that. There is a third and final floor in this prison, which houses the torture chambers and oubliettes, and it is with great trepidation that she begins her search down the first corridor.

There are no cells on either side of this corridor. They are instead situated directly beneath the floor, each oubliette being a twenty foot drop onto a stack of hay that’s topped off with a bronze grate.

Lise steps around the first grate silently, terrified of what she’ll find down below. Fortunately, this first cell is empty, though her heart is still thundering inside her chest as she moves on to the next one.

And it is here that she finally spots Len.

He doesn’t look much worse for wear, but his physical wellbeing can hardly tell her what state his mind is in. Len was a clever man with a sharp tongue, the kind of person whose brain Leuis liked to torment with his own unique tricks.

He’s unconscious for the moment, lying on his side, an empty tin plate beside him. He could be sleeping for all she knows, but he could also be in a trance. In fact, she’s almost certain he’s in a trance—he would’ve found a way out of here long ago if he hadn’t been.

Her heart nearly breaks when she thinks of how long he’s had to suffer here on his own—and all because she was too afraid to offer him the help he really needed. At the very least, she could’ve offered to keep Eobard occupied while Len fled with the prince.

He’d be a world away from here right now if she’d only had a little backbone.

Still holding Hartley’s hand, she couches down beside the grate. She thinks Len can hear her— _hopes_ Len can hear her as she says, “If you stay here, Len, I will—”

“—die?” someone says directly behind her.

Lise almost turns on reflex to face her adversary, but is stopped by the sword balanced precariously on her right shoulder, the blade close enough to her neck that one false move could prove deadly.

After a beat, Amaya says, “Even with your shield, I can still see the blood pumping through your veins. No one can ever hide from me.”

Lise knows then that the gig is up.

The animal part of her brain that’s so very afraid to die is already reaching down into the earth, calling forth her vines, which immediately creep up between the cracks in the smooth stone floor. At the same time, Mick pulls the trigger on his peculiar weapon—and then suddenly the corridor erupts in flames, sending all their lives ablaze.

The sidhe have a healthy fear of fire. Humans do too, but the dancing flames don’t memorize them the same way they do the sidhe. A sidhe faced with fire is slow to react and doomed to a most painful death, because it is one of the few elemental injuries from which they cannot heal. A simple burn can prove deadly.

It is therefore a true miracle that Lise able to turn her back on the fire as she pivot around to face Amaya. Simultaneously, she urges her vines upward to ensnare the woman’s blade, and then send them further along Amaya’s arm to her tender throat, where they coil viciously and _squeeze_.

The Captain tries to pry them off with her free hand while Lise sends a second volley of wines shooting up from the floor down the corridor to her left, where more guards are gathered. To her right, Mick sends small bursts of flame toward the other half of their assailants, keeping his side of the problem at bay; A quick glance over Lise’s shoulder reveals that Hartley is already trying to pick the lock to Len’s grate.

They look to be fairly organized, despite the circumstances.

Although, she still has no idea how they’re going to make it out of here alive…

“ _Stop_ ,” Amaya squeaks out before the vines cut her airway off completely.

Curiously, the other woman is smiling.

This gives Lise pause.

She relaxes her hold on Amaya’s throat marginally, heart still thundering in her chest as she seethes, “Give me one good reason not to kill you.”

Still straining somewhat to breathe, Amaya chokes out: “I swear I have every intention of letting you and your friends leave here alive.”

“And unharmed?” Lise quickly tacks on to the surprise oath. She honestly wasn’t expecting this to go so swimmingly. She always figured Amaya as the type to fall on her own sword than surrender to anyone.

“Even your brother,” Amaya adds. Then again: “I swear.”

Stunned as she is by Amaya’s capitulation, Lise realises the other from her vines. However, she keeps her end of the corridor blocked off, and Mick keeps his weapon poised and ready to incinerate anyone who approaches on his side. Hartley, on the other hand, pauses in his work to give the Captain a curious look.

Lise is still having a hard time processing this. “Why would you let us go?”

“Because we need your help,” Amaya replies as she sheaths her sword. Then, gingerly, she begins rubbing her throat. “We don’t entirely agree with how your father has been dealing with Zolomon. He could’ve ended this war a long time ago.”

Sheepishly, Hartley asks, “Are you technically _allowed_ to disobey the king like this?”

“He hasn’t given me explicit instructions concerning his children since he asked me to retrieve his son,” Amaya explains, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “And while I’m not supposed to ‘release’ prisoners without his approval, he never said I had to prevent them from leaving of their own free will.”

Hartley mulls over her answer for a moment before he cautiously stands up and tugs the key ring off her belt. Then he resumes his work fighting to get the grate open.

“What exactly do you need me to do?” Lise asks, only half concentrating on the conversation at hand as her vines wind their way down into the oubliette to collect her brother.

“Kill Zolomon.”

It takes a second for Amaya’s response to register in her before Lise barks out a laugh. “Good _grief_ —how do you expect me to accomplish that?”

“Your kiss.”

That…that, on the other hand, shuts Lise right up. She knows where Amaya is going with this, but it seems nobody realizes how truly difficult it is to find a proper recipient for the Nemesis Kiss.

“I can’t do that unless I find someone who hates Zolomon more than any other being alive,” she replies, “I don’t think there’s a person in our world who loathes this Zolomon more than his father or our king. I don’t even know if any of you have even met him before. And simply being afraid of him won’t cut it. I need someone who knows his soul and hates him above all others— _and_ someone who isn’t beholden to him either by oath or some other force of nature. That’s a pretty tall order.”

“Probably someone he’s betrayed personally,” Amaya suggests, not appearing to be the least bit deterred by Lise’s excuses. “You’d have to talk to someone who knows him pretty well to figure that one out, I suppose…”

…

Oh.

She’s talking about Eobard.

Lise winces. “You _do_ realize he’s in league with Zolomon, don’t you?”

“Don’t be fooled, your highness. Eobard has his own agenda. If serving Zolomon becomes enough of a detriment to him, he’ll give you what he wants.”

Lise still doesn’t think Amaya understands how difficult a task talking to Eobard is going to be, but in the interest of getting out of here in good time, she nods her head and turns around to assist Hartley with hauling her poor brother up over the lip of the grate.

Lenny, thank god, is finally coherent again. He looks fairly dazed, squinting first at Hartley and then Lise before he says, “What did I miss?”

“Everything,” Mick grunts.

Len looks fairly pleased to see his old friend with them as he staggers to his feet, leaning against Lise for support. But then his eyes fall on Amaya and he tenses.

“You have about twenty hours before your father expects to have another audience with you,” Amaya says, eyeing him up. “Please don’t ever let me catch you again, Leonard.”

“Noted,” he drawls, which sounds somewhat ridiculous with how muggy his brain is right now. He glances first toward the wall of veins and then the other way toward the guards huddled together nervously at the other end of the corridor. “Where’s the exit?”

The exit is three storeys up, but they make it there unmolested. Amaya pretty much escorts them back to Lise’s entry point—and then smoothly continues down the corridor, as if she hadn’t been guiding them at all. Lise doesn’t question her behavior. She drags her companions through the waypoint before the Captain changes her mind, and mentally congratulates herself for finally working up the courage to pay Len back with his freedom for all the good he’s done her over the years.

They take another break in the tunnels to give Len the opportunity to better collect himself. She knows he’s just about ready to go when he frowns in consternation and says, “Be honest—what did I _really_ miss?”

“I could write you a book,” Lise sighs. “It’s mostly bad news, so I’ll just cut to the chase—your little lover is in Zolomon’s clutches now.”

She’s used to seeing Leuis’ temper flare at the drop of a hat, so it’s no surprise when Len’s face darkens almost as quickly when he hears that statement. Hartley sagely takes a half step back from him, sensing danger.

“Is he hurt?” Len demands. “Is he dead?”

“He’s alive and well,” she replies, although she decides it’s for the best if she doesn’t mention the _exact_ condition she found the fool of a boy in when she tracked him down. Watching the prince make the beast with two backs with a literal monster was going to haunt her until her dying days, although she’s happy to note Len still has impeccable taste in men. Prince Bartholomew is quite the looker. “I don’t think he knows he’s in any danger yet. I sent my boyfriend to keep an eye on him, so we should probably hurry before the pipsqueak decides to play the hero and gets fried for his efforts.”

“You have a boyfriend?” Mick mutters under his breath.

Lise side-eyes him _hard_ , because she doesn’t need that kind of cheek right now. Then she glances over at Len again and says, “You’re looking particularly cold, brother...If you’re feeling up to it, I think we just might stand a chance against Eobard.”

“Eobard?” he asks, baffled, because he obviously wasn’t operating at one hundred percent when she was having that very important conversation with Amaya.

“I need to find Zolomon’s nemesis,” she explains. “Eobard probably knows, which means we’re going to have to strongarm the answer out of him.”

“We don’t need Eobard,” Len says, voice low and dangerous. “I already know who hates Zolomon above all others. Just get us to the capital—I’ll explain everything on the way there.”

He has no idea how much of a relief it is to hear that. She doesn’t know if she’s mentally or emotionally prepared to face off against Eobard right now.

She winks at Len in understanding, then turns sharply toward the wall beside her and—

—slams face first into the bedrock.

Stars dance across her vision as she stumbles back a step, nose stinging, dabbing her top lip to check for blood. “ _Ow_ ,” she mutters, incensed.

“Wait, isn’t this the exact point we entered from my world?” Hartley asks. “What the hell was that?”

The way before her is closed—not permanently, because she can still feel where the fabric of time and space is bending between the two dimensions, but something is preventing her from digging her incorporeal fingers into it and manipulating it to her will.

Or rather, some _one…_

Her entourage is looking to her for an explanation now, so she tells them exactly how it stands:

“Eobard.”

~***~

For the first few hours of the following day, Henry has to bat down the voice at the back of his head telling him everything that happened yesterday was just a dream.

Then Barry breezes into his quarters to join him for breakfast and all his uncertainties melt away.

His boy is home again.

He knows he’ll be battling this newfound anxiety every time his son leaves his sight, but Henry has ample experience keeping a straight face in troubled times and he’s not about to spoil Barry’s good mood with his concerns. Seeing him whole and happy again is the greatest gift Henry could have ever asked for, second, perhaps, only to the day his little boy was born.

They discuss many things that day, just the two of them, Barry sitting on the window sill and Henry at his desk, the way they used to be when his son was young and wanted to know what a king at work looked like. Oh course, Barry no longer needed to observe him; Henry taught him almost everything he needed to know about being a king before his disappearance. It was a relief that his son would see the fruits of that labor, that now that he was home, their plans could resume as intended.

Barry leaves him to his own devices in the early afternoon, wanting to freshen up for the banquet tonight to celebrate his return. Henry, of course, uses this opportunity to call on his son-in-law so that they can finally speak in private.

The young man doesn’t keep him waiting. He comes to Henry’s quarters sooner than expected, clean-shaven and well dressed, though still wearing the faint traces of his battle scars. Henry knows the lad has had his fair share of the war already, which he knows will benefit Barry in the hard times ahead. Barry’s never fought in a battle like his father. He needs someone with experience in that department.

Even so…

“Just a moment,” Henry says as he finishes off a letter. Once he’s penned out his signature, he gestures to the chair beside his desk with his feather pen and then goes about folded the slip of paper shut. “Please, have a seat.”

Jason Garrick follows his command without question or comment, just as silent and reserved as he was the night before when Barry explained the details of his life since his capture. That kind of behavior can be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on the person.

Henry melts the end of his red wax stick over the candle on his desk and dabs a few drops over the edge of his folded letter. Then he slips off his ring and presses the royal insignia into the wax before it hardens. He places both aside on the small stack of papers between them, making a mental note to see to it that Ramon’s mother is taken care of now that her son is gone, and finally settles back comfortably into his chair.

“I will be frank with you,” Henry begins, deciding on the direct route, “Barry wasn’t supposed to marry you.”

Jason glances down and away, taking a slow, deep breath, as if he refuses to agree with that notion. But he doesn’t openly oppose Henry, which is a good sign that he isn’t an idiot.

After Jason’s had a little time to let this settle in, he asks, “Who, might I ask, was he supposed to marry?”

“Ideally, a member of the Wayne family,” Henry replies. “But that isn’t important anymore. You come from a good family yourself, even if you were adopted.”

Jason seems to relax a little at this admission. “Barry told me you’re distantly related to the Garricks.”

“Through marriage,” Henry explains. “My second cousin used to write to me when we were still young. She mentioned that her brother-in-law found a boy wandering alone in the mountains one day. I remember her letter clearly because I received it the day my own son was born.”

“The Garricks had always been kind to me,” Jason says quietly, eyes downcast again, as if something heavy was weighing on his mind.

Henry knows all the other Garricks are dead now. They were one of the first families to go once Zolomon began his campaign against humankind. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You must understand, then, why I have every intention of finishing this war,” Jason replies. He looks up at Henry, a peculiar gleam in his eyes, a spark of something fierce. “I have no desire to drag my husband into battle, but I can’t sit idle while the continent is _so_ close to being taken.”

Oh, to be young again…Henry remembers that feeling all too well, that fire in his veins when he knew he would have to fight for all he ever loved. Jason has this same vigor, in spades.

“Perhaps you will be pleased to know Barry is of the same mind as you,” Henry replies. “We don’t know how long my wife’s barrier will hold, and he’s reiterated to me his desire to bring this war to Zolomon before Zolomon finds a way to finally bring it to us. My people will have to take up arms against him sooner rather than later.”

There’s a stunned moment of silence from Jason before the man tries to put his sensitive thoughts into word, “I mean no disrespect, your majesty, but…”

“I’m too old to lead an army?” Henry chuckles, because it is indeed a laughable thought. “The whole kingdom believed me to be on my deathbed two weeks ago. Even if I had the energy to ride out to the battle, I doubt my men have enough faith in my longevity to follow me. No…this is unfortunately a battle the two of you will have to lead together.”

Jason narrows his eyes at him in suspicion. “Is this your way of telling me you approve of our marriage?”

Henry laughs again, because Barry asked him almost the exact same question this morning. It was good to see their minds were so aligned. “Yes, but,” he clears his throat, affording him the opportunity to compose himself again, “this is also my way of telling you I am abdicating the crown.”

There’s another stunned silence from Jason, this one considerably longer than the last. “When?” he asks faintly.

“Barry knows he was supposed to be coronated the day he married,” Henry explains. Obviously, that plan fell through, but that wasn’t something either of them could control. “I intend to make the announcement tonight, unless you can think of a reason why you aren’t suited to rule this kingdom, because, as his spouse, you are to be equal in all things.”

“Barry is already my equal in all things,” Jason replies, still faintly, as if he’s still trying to process this unexpected turn of events. “I would give him the universe if I could.”

Henry hasn’t known his son-in-law for very long, but he’s good at reading lies. He doesn’t get the feeling Jason is being dishonest with him. In fact, he feels as though Jason believes very much in his statements, and that puts Henry’s mind at ease.

“Good,” he says. “Barring any unforeseen circumstances, the coronation will be held tomorrow evening. Clifford might yet convince me to have you sign our own variation of a marriage certificate before the ceremony, but that has nothing to do with the legality of your union and everything to do with the perceived embarrassment that my son was married in the kingdom of our enemy, presumably under duress, even if that duress had nothing to do with you.”

“Whatever you need, consider it done.”

Henry nods his head in thanks. “I look forward to getting to know you better, Jason.”

“You as well,” Jason replies, rising from his seat. He nods his own head in respect before he exits the room.

Henry sits in silence for a long while after he’s gone. He turns his gaze out the window by his desk, watching as the azure sky slowly turns to red. He’s spent many a day in this exact spot, staring out this same window, willing to give anything and everything for the chance to see his son alive again one last time.

Now, he’s beginning to wonder if the Powers That Be have yet to request thepayment for their generosity.

~***~

He feels sick.

He knows it’s just nerves, but that doesn’t make the situation any better.

Iris and Caitlin elect themselves his personal buffers for the day, keeping his mind on the tasks at hand as he goes about preparing for the ceremony. They drag him down to his father’s drawing room to sign a new copy of his marriage contract and then usher him to the throne room for a quick rehearsal of his limited part in the coronation. From there, they steal him away to grab lunch in the kitchen and finally send him off to his chambers, where his tailor is waiting to make any last minute adjustments to his uniform.

Barry hadn’t wanted anything too flashy, but somehow gold trimming had made its way onto the cuffs and the hem of his coat. At least his waistcoat was still plain white like he’d requested, and his breeches were made of a black enough material to match his boots. Even so, he still felt ill at the prospect of standing in front of every noble in the kingdom in just a few hours. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed from all the swarming masses, of servants and advisors and people he hardly knows wanting to speak, or see, or touch him suddenly since his miraculous return. In hindsight, it was truly a blessing that his wedding, at least, was such a small affair.

Iris, trying to be kind, asks him questions after the final fitting to keep his mind off the ceremony.

“Do you miss it?”

‘It’, he already knows, is his tail. And he’s surprised to say he does. “A little.”

They’re the only two people beyond his father who he’s given permission to ask him the nitty gritty details of his imprisonment. Most of their questions have been pretty low-bar, such as the perks of having a fin, but as he turns away from the mirror to face his companions, he doesn’t miss the way Caitlin’s eyes narrow briefly, the same way they always do before she’s about to ask a piercing question.

“Tell us more about Len.”

Barry has already given them the abridged version of his dealings with ‘Len’—omitting, of course, how close they had gotten to one another, but not shying away from the details of the phony escape plan and Cisco’s death, even if he hadn’t witnessed the latter. The way she keeps needling him, though, suggests she probably knows he’s not telling them the whole truth.

“There’s nothing much else to say,” Barry sighs, settling into the high-backed chair adjacent to the chaise lounge they’d both parked themselves on. “He spent over a month with me before Eobard chased him away. That’s about the only thing Eobard was good for, honestly…”

“That’s the thing I don’t get,” she says. “The timeframe of your friendship, I mean. A month seems like an awfully long time to wait around before kidnapping someone.”

“He needed Hartley to make the potion to get me out of there,” Barry clarifies, though he’s already told them that once before. “Not that I believe Hartley knew what he was up to.”

Iris shakes her head slowly, her face similarly pinched with disbelief. “That’s what I don’t get either. Eobard told you Len was the son of Leuis—the frigg’n _King_ of the Sidhe. The sidhe are the people you normally go to when you need a spell or a curse or a potion, because pretty much all the magic in our world originated in theirs. In fact, I bet you anything the potion Hartley brewed was originally developed by a sidhe, so why on earth would this Len need a human to help him make it?”

Oddly enough, this isn’t exactly a question Barry hasn’t yet thought of himself.

In fact, he’s spent more time than he’d care to think about pondering over the truth of Eobard’s claim to saving him. In fact, Eobard didn’t need to say anything at all to defend his actions. He usually killed anyone that stumbled across the lake without a second thought. If he had done away Len and left without a single word, Barry would have been beside himself with grief—heck, Eobard should’ve claimed Cisco’s death as his own doing as well as to remind Barry not to mess with him. That seemed more like the sidhe’s vibe.

Caitlin can probably tell what he’s thinking, because she suddenly says, “I don’t think you want to be half as mad at this guy as you need to be.”

Barry had a personal philosophy of ‘forgive and move on’, so she wasn’t wrong about that. 

“Let’s not forget that this guy had a stunning review from Hartley Rathaway,” Iris chuckles. “Hart’s a real dweeb sometimes, but he’s a good judge of character. After all, he was right about Eobard parading around as Wells. If he had reason to believe Len was up to no good, he would’ve abandoned him a long time ago.”

That, perhaps, is one of the most telling things of all. Hartley didn’t warm up to people easily. He was overly cautious, to the point where he often came off as overly judgemental instead, but he wasn’t easily fooled either.

Barry is shaken from his reverie by a light knock on the door. He takes a moment to wonder who it might before he calls out, “Come in!”

It’s another servant, he thinks, though he’s never seen this blond fellow before. He’s holding a small velveteen box in his hands, the kind his mother used to stash her jewelry in, although it’s not large enough for his diadem, which he already knows is under guard in the throne room.

“What’s this?” he asks, rising from his seat.

“A gift from Lord Esker, your highness,” the man replies, though Barry doesn’t recall having ever met anyone by the name. Even so, the guards posted in the corridor wouldn’t have permitted the man into the room if he didn’t have something important to show Barry.

Which it most certainly is. The man draws off the lid to reveal a small silver wedding band, within which three black stones have been embedded. Barry picks it up gingerly between his forefinger and thumb, mesmerized by the stones.

“It’s a wedding band,” the man clarifies. “I have already delivered its twin to your husband.”

Barry had been meaning to ask Jason about the prospect of obtaining a set of matching rings, but he’d been so caught up with the coronation, he decided to put it off until later. He’s delighted they have something already—and something so beautiful at that.

“What are these stones?” Barry asks as he slips the band onto his ring finger. Thankfully, its neither too loose nor too tight.

“Black diamonds. They signify undying loyalty.”

“Fitting,” Iris murmurs as she rises from the chaise lounge to steal a look at his ring. “It’s very beautiful.”

Their visitor smiles. “Many happy years to you and your husband, your highness.”

“Thank you,” Barry says, smiling in return, watching the man go before he wanders back over to their chairs to show Caitlin the ring. “What do you think?”

“It’s lovely.”

It is, enough so that it distracts him for a good fifteen to twenty minutes before Iris switches to the subject of their conversation to what she considers to be his hunk of a husband, which successfully distracts him once and for all from the roiling sensation in his gut.

Until, of course, the coronation itself begins.

Jason comes to collect him when the hour is finally at hand, dressed in a similar attire to his own with the one exception that Jason opted for a dark blue coat in lieu of red. He takes Barry’s left hand, kisses him gently on the lips, and then hooks Barry’s arm in his own before leading him down the stairs to the main hall.

The hall is empty of spectators, but it’s still jam packed with everyone who’s required to be a part of his procession. There are several clerics from the various religious denominations of their kingdom, the officers of the Order of the Knighthood, the Standards, the Members of the Royal Household and the Heralds, various elected officials from their seven provinces, and then finally the Bearer of the Regalia. In total, there are about seventy people crammed into that small space, already a little weary from their previous procession through the city streets (a part which Barry was graciously spared, given that his legs are still too weak for long journeys), but obviously grateful to see him there on time. It only takes them a few minutes to reorganize themselves and continue the procession into the throne room itself, leading the way for the new kings.

Barry keeps his arm hooked in Jason’s as the make their way down the aisle. His husband helps to keep him grounded as he tries to ignore the hundreds of eyes following their every move toward the thrones his mother and father occupied together many years ago. His father, having already turned over his crown, stands beside the throne to the left, which now belongs to Barry. He’s smiling, obviously proud that they both lived to see this day, and that helps calm him down even more.

Despite the short distance from the door to the thrones, Barry feels like he ran a marathon when they finally take their seats.

Martin Stein then steps forward, the Book of Oaths tucked under his arm, and addresses the masses. “I here present unto you Bartholomew and Jason, your undoubted Kings,” he says, “Wherefore all you who are come this day to do your homage and service, are you willing to do the same?”

There’s an acclamation from those gathered before Martin turns to Barry and holds the book out to him. Obediently, Barry places his palm upon the front cover and waits for his advisor to continue.

“Bartholomew, will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the people of your kingdom according to our laws and customs?”

“I solemnly promise to do so,” Barry replies.

“Will you to your power cause law and justice, in mercy, to be executed in all your judgments?”

“I will.”

Satisfied with his response, Martin steps over to Jason to repeat the process.

Barry’s least favorite part of the ceremony comes next, where a spoonful of oil is poured on top of their heads to represent the washing away of any immoralities that would make them unfit to take the crown. Barry can feel it slowly dribbling down the back of his neck, but he sits as still as he was instructed to earlier, telling himself they’re almost done.

Next is the presentation of gifts. A copper medallion in the shape of an eight-point star is hung around his throat to represent wisdom and a plain golden band is slipped onto his ring finger next to his wedding band to signify his second marriage to his kingdom. Then he’s given a scepter to hold in his left hand to represent justice and a sword in the other for might, before all of it, minus the ring, is removed from him once again. Finally, two servants step forward with their respective crowns.

They’re not traditional crowns, in the sense that Barry opted to use less metal. They’re more like diadems, which sit lower on the head and are open at the back. Both are made of white gold, so they will never tarnish, and are inlaid with more garnets and red toluamides than he can remember asking the jeweler to incorporate.

Jason reaches over to take his hand as Martin picks up one of the crowns and approaches Barry. Holding it high over Barry’s head, Martin says, “We crown you with a crown of glory and righteousness. Be strong, be faithful, be just, King Bartholomew of the House of Allen.”

The crown is heavier than he imagined it would be, but that likely has something to do with all the stones. Barry only thinks on that peculiarity briefly before he tunes back into Martin’s speech, just in time to hear the man crown his husband ‘King Jason of the House of Allan’.

At long last, Martin steps aside, turns back to the masses, and says, “Behold your new Kings!”

The crowd erupts in applause as their new sovereigns rise to their feet, their hands still linked. Barry can hardly believe this happening; he never thought he would live to see the day…

He gives Jason a squeeze for support, heart hammering in his chest, only vaguely aware of the familiar blond man stepping out onto the red carpet. The obtrude isn’t clapping, but he certainly looks pleased with something.

The people nearest the stranger fall silent first. It’s enough of a disruption in the overall cheer of the crowd that more people inevitably turn their heads to see what the matter is. Rather belatedly, the guards nearest the doors notice, too, finally marching down the aisle to take the man aside.

However, before they reach him, the man takes a step closer and loudly proclaims, “All hail King Zolomon, Emperor of the world above!” His eyes then fall on Barry. “And all hail King Bartholomew, the Emperor’s Consort!”

Barry feels as though the air’s been punched out of him after such a tasteless joke. In fact, he feels like he might need to sit down again, to get over this winded feeling—but then he hears a small gasp off to his left, and he turns his head to suddenly see the Heralds all staring at his husband as if he’d grown a second head.

Naturally, Barry follows their line of regard and is completely floored when he sees that the white gold of his husband’s crown is now completely black. As are its gemstones. The upward arch is also more jagged and pronounced, giving it a more sinister bearing. However, Jason doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he’s staring calmly at Barry, who’s hand he lifts to press a kiss against the knuckle above Barry’s wedding band.

Barry can feel the crown upon his own head shifting—can _see_ the band representing his kingship turning black, his mind awhirl as he tries to understand what’s happening. This must be a nightmare. There’s no explanation as to how the man who saved him, who _loved_  him, could be the same man he’s so desperately been trying to escape.

As this terrible new reality unfolds, the guards reach the first intruder, but in a burst of light they’re sent flying backwards again, as if struck by lightning.

His husband glances over at his minion and says, “Take care of this, Eobard.”

The man— _Eobard_ bows his head and scans the masses for the other guards squirming through the crowd toward him. There’s another crack of lightning as they, too, are quickly disposed of.

Barry whips his head around to his father. “ _Run_!” he cries.

Barry sees his father jump in surprise before he’s blinded by a brilliant flash of light, one which is closer at hand and which doesn’t immediately end. He’s moving suddenly, buffeted all around by a fierce wind before coming an abrupt a halt somewhere dark and quiet. What follows next is a long moment of disorientation, the room spinning viciously around him as he clings to the man at his side.

Once his brain settles, Barry realizes he’s been returned to their chambers. For a second, he actually believes he might’ve hallucinated the whole thing. But then he sees the dark crown atop his husband’s head, and he _knows_ that the man he married is really King Zolomon.

Barry pushes him away, taking a few steps back, stopping when he bumps into the corner of their four-poster bed, that soft and sacred place where they made love long into the night before. “How?” he asks, voice weak, still feeling dazed. “How did you…?”

“Tonight,” Jason— _Zolomon_ offers, not looking terribly surprised by Barry’s rejection. He turns away then, as if heading for the door. “I will tell you everything tonight.”

“Wait!” Barry cries, finding his voice again for the moment. “Please—don’t kill them!”

Zolomon glances back at him, pausing only briefly before he nods and says, “Consider it a belated wedding gift.”

Then there’s a final flash of light before the dark sidhe vanishes, leaving Barry alone and afraid, internally crushed by the great calamity he brought upon his people with his foolishness.

Frantic, Barry runs to the door in the hopes of returning to the fray—only to find it locked. 

There is nothing he can do to now that the horror has begun.

~***~

It takes an ungodly amount of time for his sister to find a waypoint that works. And when they do surface, it’s to his great displeasure that he has _no_ idea where the hell they are.

Then Hartley helpfully pipes up with: “We’re in the Hovratin Mountains.”

Len wracks his brain for a moment and realizes he recognizes the name. It’s an old mining town in the farthest north-eastern corner of Barry’s kingdom, which explains why they’re surrounded by said mountains, the literal border between their country and that of the House of Wayne, prior to Zolomon’s hostile takeover, of course.

From the cliff upon which they’ve found themselves, Len can see the hilly plains that supposedly stretch from here to the capital in the far, far the south. Oddly enough, he can also see a large, black mass moving in the distance, heading south.

“What does that look like to you?” Len asks, addressing no one in particular.

He gets nothing but silence from Lise and Hartley. But Mick, having seen his fair share of wars in his life, comes up with the most plausible answer: “An army.”

“Three guesses says that’s one of Zolomon’s regiments,” Lise mutters, looking more put out than anything else at the moment. The extra bit of confidence looks good on her. “This is certainly an inconvenience.”

“I’m not fighting a whole army,” Hartley chimes in.

“None of us are,” Len sighs, nodding eastward toward the coast. Dotted on the horizon he can see several ships, no doubt launched from the nearby port to send a warning to the capital. “We’ll sail around the problem. For now. I can’t say what state we’ll find the capital in once we get there.”

Hartley opens his mouth and closes it, seeming to agree with at least stage one of Len’s impromptu plan.

Mick, meanwhile, inches his way closer to the edge of the cliff, staring down the steep incline at the thick vegetation below. There are no obvious footholds leading downward; only up toward the highest reaches of the mountain.

But they don’t want to go up.

Thankfully, Lise doesn’t look all too concerned. She flips her hair over her shoulder, smiles, and says, “We’ll take the express route” before shoving Hartley bodily over the edge.

The three of them lean forward to watch him go. He screams the whole way down before disappearing through a canopy of leaves…and then he just keeps on screaming, although the new string of words that echo up to them sound more like curses than the cry of a dying man.

Len knows making a quick trip to the world below probably strengthened Lise just as much as, if not more so, than him. Even if he’ll never take a shine to the idea of being manhandled safely to the ground by a bunch of plants, he knows Lise won’t let her pets drop him once Mick pitches himself over the edge and safely joins Hartley down below.

“Ready for a fight?” Lise asks him, gold eyes flashing, looking somehow more vibrant than ever before.

Len gazes out at sea, eyeing the storm clouds blowing in. He wonders if the world can feel how the proverbial tides have shifted, the dissonance of having one man lay claim to more land he can touch and see in his lifetime.

“Always,” Len says and finally takes the plunge.

~***~

Zolomon tells him not to kill anyone, so he doesn’t.

He tries to ignore how relieved he feels about that command as he sets about his work.

Eobard locks everyone assembled for the coronation in the throne room, save for the king’s father, whom he instead spirits away to the quarters he utilized as Harrison Wells. He spent the better part of last winter putting the necessary wards in place to keep any sorcerers or sidhe out, barring his present company, Cisco Ramon, still seated by the barred window where Eobard manacled his wrist. The foolish boy just about screamed himself hoarse day one of his captivity, but the wards don’t allow any sound to escape this space. Eobard could put him under a trance, of course, but he’s not as talented as Leuis in that respect. He would need a potion for the necessary _oomph_ , but there’s little point in doing that now that Zolomon has played his hand.

In the blink of an eye, Eobard deposits the old sovereign on the bed in the corner. He doesn’t bother restraining him, because there’s hardly anything Henry can do to reverse what was set in motion days ago, Henry doesn’t thank him for being gentle, of course. Instead, he swats Eobard’s hand off his arm and says, “Where is my son!”

“He’s safe,” Eobard promises.

“As if I could ever trust the likes of _you_ ,” the old man seethes, rising from the bed.

Eobard doesn’t bother backing away from him or pushing him down again, because in no way, shape, or form is Henry capable of hurting or overpowering him.

“Not me, perhaps,” Eobard admits, “but certainly your King and Emperor. After all, he swore an oath when he married your son.”

That gives Henry pause, confusion clear in the crease of his brow. Then he asks, “Why did he choose to ensnare my son in such a way?”

“You mean beyond the fact that it put him in direct line of your throne?” There were, of course, other ways to overthrow a kingdom, many of which Eobard has seen Zolomon exercise with a truly stunning level of finesse. And while he knows Zolomon wasn’t afraid to play the long con in overthrowing Henry’s kingdom because of his injury, he’s likewise confused as to why Zolomon would let the boy off so easy. “If I had to guess, I’d say he just might actually be in love with Bartholomew.”

“What does he know of love?” Cisco mutters from his perch by the window, voice still a little hoarse. “He kills without restraint. He doesn’t have the capacity for love.”

“Maybe,” Eobard shrugs. He can hardly claim to understand an emotion he’s not wholly able to perceive. “But it’s lonely at the top. I imagine it might be nice having a little company.”

Henry looks like he has a particularly vicious barb perched on the tip of his tongue in response to that, but Eobard leaves before he’s subjected to any more of this tedium. He darts out the door in a heartbeat and casually closes it behind himself, not the least bit concerned when he spots Henry springing after him before it swings shut. Once the door closes, the lock snickers beautifully into place.

If Henry is verbally displeased with his imprisonment, Eobard can’t hear him. He smiles as he turns away, spotting a servant boy at the end of the corridor, giving Eobard a peculiar look. It takes Eobard a moment to remember that only a handful of people recognize him in his true form.

“Have two meals prepared for the evening,” Eobard instructs as he breezes past the boy, “and leave them outside that door. Thank you.”

He picks up his speed again as soon as he turns the corner, moving through the palace corridors faster than the human eye can perceive in his search for Zolomon. He sees guards and court sorcerers frozen in place in their attempt to break down the door to the throne room, still confused and dismayed over the current turn of events. Soon, they will be swarming the halls, searching for their missing royalty.

Eobard finds Zolomon pacing one of the open gorge towers overlooking the city, hands folded neatly together behind his back, dressed entirely in black. A fierce wind whips at his robes as a storm rises over the ocean in the east. He is staring northward, subconsciously waiting for his army to spill forward from the stretch of golden plains. In a day or two, he will have enough soldiers to mount an attack against Leuis.

“Is being an emperor everything you hoped it would be?” Eobard asks, admittedly stunned that Zolomon’s plan came to a close as smoothly as he anticipated it would.

“It is,” Zolomon agrees, voice soft, still staring thoughtfully at the ever darkening horizon.

“You’re not in your usual celebratory mood tonight,” Eobard murmurs, which is, to say, he was expecting more of a slaughter to unfold. After all, the Emperor is very much like his father in that respect; sometimes nothing satisfies his desire for power so much as exercising said power to its full extent.

“Bartholomew asked me to restrain myself,” Zolomon says. There’s a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. “I feel oddly…content.”

“Married life will do that to you, I suppose.”

Zolomon hums in what Eobard assumes in agreement. After one last lingering look at his newly acquired kingdom, Zolomon turns to him and says, “I have a gift for you.”

Eobard’s not entirely fond of Zolomon’s gifts, usually because they turn out to be someone’s execution, as if his sovereign could think of not greater offering to celebrate the continued wellbeing of one person than the cessation of another. So, Eobard braces himself, keeping his eyes on Zolomon’s hand as the other sidhe reaches under his cape and produces a dagger not too unlike the one Eobard lost to Barry.

Eobard’s pulse flutters in his throat as Zolomon extends the dagger to him—and then swiftly flips it over, handle forward. Eobard takes it with a gracious bow of his head, dragging his gloved finger down the iron blade. It will be useful in the coming battle against Leuis and his sycophants.

“To compensate for the one you lost to my husband,” Zolomon clarifies. “And, as promised, you will have a voice in how I carry out Leuis’ execution. It’s the least I can give you for your services to me, Thawne.”

The dagger disappears into Eobard’s robes, tucked in close to his hip where it is the easiest to retrieve. “It has been my absolute pleasure, your majesty.”

Zolomon smiles at him, but then his gaze shifts to the left, looking over Eobard’s shoulder at the stone stairwell leading to their walkway atop the palace wall. Eobard can hear the heavy pound of armored feet before he turns his head to behold the mass of soldiers now rounding on them, lead by a furious Marlize Devoe. She’s an excellent swordsman and a talented sorcerer, someone Eobard has grown to admire in his brief time parading as her fellow advisor to King Henry.

It’s truly unfortunate that she looks upon Eobard now with such hatred.

“Where are they?” she barks as she draws her sword, her blue cape billowing in the wind. As she walks, the soldiers flanking her lower their spear points toward the two sidhe, bracing themselves for battle.

“Safe and sound,” Eobard replies, feeling a shift in the air around him, a charge building up inside his chest, aching to be free.

Before he can shock her, he feels a hand on his shoulder holding him back.

“Save your strength for the war below,” Zolomon advises him. To Marlize and her troops, he bellows, “ _Kneel_!”

There’s another shift in the air, this one even more primal than the thrum of energy Eobard usually draws forth with his powers. He can feel it buzzing in his bones, a deep-seated _pull_ at the very core of his being to obey his Emperor’s command, even if that command is not addressed to him.

The humans bend to Zolomon’s will immediately, falling to one knee, weapons, now heavy, pointed toward the ground. Marlize looks truly horrified as she realizes the level of control Zolomon wields against them as their lawful ruler.

“All sorcerers and soldiers of this kingdom are mine to command,” Zolomon announces. He inclines his head toward Eobard. “Release the other one. I want him, too.”

Begrudgingly, Eobard tears the medallion from his throat and tosses it onto the stone floor before Marlize. There’s a burst of bright light as the two twinning pieces of metal relinquish their prisoners. Eobard had returned Wells’ body to the amulet earlier today, and now it was reunited with its corresponding soul, giving form to the poor man as he lies dazed beside his daughter.

“Harry?” Marlize breathes, trying, and failing, to move forward to offer her fallen friends her aid.

The girl comes to her senses first, reaching over to her father, shaking him by the shoulder to rouse him. Zolomon waits until they’re both fully conscious and sitting upright before he continues. “Inform your brethren that my war is now your war. You will _all_ be joining me in my conquest of the world below. Those who resist will be compelled.”

Altogether, the humans rise, released from their position on the ground. Marlize is still glaring daggers at Zolomon, but she wisely keeps her thoughts to herself as she wraps an arm around the girl’s shoulders and cautiously guides her companions down the stairs.

After they’re gone, Eobard turns to Zolomon and says, “The sorcerers can probably hold their own in battle, but the human soldiers won’t stand a chance against our kind, least of all in the world below.”

“Cannon fodder doesn’t need to last longer than a single shot,” Zolomon murmurs, finally withdrawing his hand from Eobard’s shoulder. “Keep an eye on things and make sure my message is delivered before the end of tomorrow. As soon as our reinforcements arrive, we march on Leuis.”

Eobard bows his head. “As you wish, your majesty.”

Another smile graces Zolomon’s lips before he vanishes, lightning licking the air in his wake. Power radiates from him like a wave, stirring the energy within Eobard as well. It’s one of the bonuses to working for someone of Zolomon’s nature. He always felt like he was backing the right fighter in the ring, secure in knowing that victory was always close at hand.

Alone at last, Eobard takes this opportunity to admire the view. Storm clouds are still rolling in, black against the horizon, periodically illuminated by bright flashes of lightning over the water. He can practically smell the electricity in the air, a whiff of earth and ocean spray seared together by something so utterly violent and divine.

He watches the approaching storm a while longer before sprinting off to determine the best way to round up Zolomon’s so-called ‘cannon fodder’.

The humans are in for one hell of a fight.

~***~

After the fear comes the anger.

Barry has learned a lot about anger since Eobard first tricked him into visiting the Apagorev Forest, such as it’s the easiest emotion to cling to when you want to avoid fear or smother grief. It’s tempting to throw your arms wide open and welcome it into your heart, which is exactly what Barry does when Zolomon leaves him alone and afraid in their quarters. Barry decides then and there that he won’t cower before this beast of a man or bow to his whims. He likewise refuses to grieve the bitter passing of his dream, the cold extermination of that brief period in his life when love was real and all seemed well in his life.

It was all a lie and should thus be treated with the scorn it deserves.

Fuming, he settles down on the chaise lounge by the balcony and stares over the back of the couch toward the darkening sky on the other side of the glass. The view is almost entirely obscured by streaks of water as the rain begins to pick up speed, adding on another layer of misery to this already dismal situation. His people thought they were crowning their king; instead, they were sharpening the axe for their executioner.

Mind occupied with his dark musings, Barry almost doesn’t hear the door swinging softly open. It clicks shut much louder though, finally forcing him to tear his eyes away from the balcony.

He turns his head to behold his husband in all his dark glory.

Zolomon stops in the centre of the room, hands at his sides, and says, “What ails you, my love?”

Something cold and foreign unfurls inside Barry as he rises to his feet. He feels almost calm as he closes the distance between them, one slow step at a time, until he finally presses his left hand against Zolomon’s chest and gently leans in for a kiss.

He can feel the subtle shift of Zolomon’s body against his hand and lips as the sidhe stiffens in surprise, reaching up to hold Barry just as gently by the arms. When Barry withdraws from the kiss, he finds himself surprised as well, but for a much different reason.

They both glance down at the letter opener in Barry’s hand, the tip poised dangerously close to Zolomon’s ribs. Barry’s hand trembles with the effort of pushing it forward, but it’s as if he’s hit a stone wall, unable to force it far enough to kill the other man.

“… _‘to never partake of his passing’_ ,” Zolomon murmurs, smiling faintly. “When you swear an oath to a sidhe, the universe conspires to make sure you keep it.”

Numb inside now, Barry drops the knife and takes a step back. Zolomon doesn’t restrain him. He merely fiddles with his wedding band, correcting its position on his finger, and then gestures toward the chaise lounge. “Please, have a seat.”

Barry does take a seat, but only because he's already on his way over to the lounge. He feels faint from suffering yet another failure, truly stunned by how tightly Zolomon has ensnared him.

Zolomon takes a step closer, but neither speaks nor takes a seat himself, as if patiently waiting for Barry to begin this interrogation.

Not knowing why Zolomon has relinquished his control over this conversation, Barry tentatively begins with the hardest question of all: “Why?”

Zolomon glances past him for a moment, at the windows streaked with rain. Shadows dance across his face; thunder rumbles in the distance. He seems to take comfort in the sound.

Finally, he says, “When I was ten years old, my father took me from our little village in the mountains and abandoned me.”

Through the haze of his anger and fear and confusion, Barry furrows his brow and asks again, “Why would he do that?”

Still watching the rain, Zolomon says, “I didn’t know it at the time, but he needed to prove to his fellow sidhe that he was strong enough to face Leuis in battle before he could earn their support, and the only way to do that was by becoming a king again. But the only way to become a king is with a crown and a kingdom, neither of which he could lay claim to with the Law of Hosts keeping him from setting foot in Palmer’s castle.” His gaze finally shifts to Barry, his voice soft as he says, “The Garricks found me. I was their son for seven years before my father crept up to my windowsill one night and beckoned me to let him in. He said he would kill my birth mother if I didn’t.”

“How can I believe you?” Barry asks, though there’s a part of him that doesn’t doubt that a word of what Zolomon says is true. They’re well past the point of lies. Zolomon doesn’t need them anymore to manipulate him.

“I swear that everything I tell you from this night forward is true,” Zolomon replies, not the least bit surprised by Barry’s reluctance to believe him. “I let him in because I loved my mother and because I didn’t know what he was planning to do. In return for my foolishness, I lost everyone else I had come to love in those seven years. Thus began my father’s campaign against the humans.”

Barry feels vaguely sick. There’s a part of him that doesn’t want to hear this, but there’s an even greater part of him that needs to understand. “If you loved them, why did you continue to go along with it?”

“I was young and afraid,” Zolomon admits, no hesitation. “And pain is a powerful motivator. I did what I was told and when I was told to do it, even after he killed my mother. It wasn’t until years later that I mustered the courage to put him out of his misery.”

“And yet you continue to do his work. In many ways, you’re no better than him.”

“I never claimed I was. He planted the blighted seed that rotted my soul, and in return for his cruelty I’m now living his dream.”

Barry glances down and away for a moment. The flame inside him is flickering, his desire to give into his anger gradually giving way to his incessant need to look for the good in others, to believe no one is ever truly past the point of salvation.

He’s not ready to part ways with his anger.

So he latches onto his pain. “You kept me away from my loved ones for over a year,” he says. “You let me wallow in misery—made me think there was no hope of ever being free. Tell me how you came to devise such a cruel fate for me.”

Zolomon glances away for a moment himself, clearly trying to organize his thoughts. With the barest hint of strain in his voice, he says, “I thought it would be simple. I’ve manipulated and killed so many nobles and monarchs before you…I thought if I kept you away from your home long enough, you would buckle, especially since your father was so sick. I told Eobard to poison him, to keep him weak enough that the threat of the crown passing onto the West family and jeopardizing their lives would hasten your response, but…you didn’t fold.”

Slowly, Zolomon takes another few steps closer, close enough that he is looming over Barry now. Then he does something surprising by lowering himself to one knee, staring up at Barry in supplication. “Every once in a while, Eobard would show you to me from afar. Even since the first time I laid eyes on you, I thought you were one of the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen. Marrying you had always been my hope, but, while I admit to being on my best behavior to seduce you, I decided I would let you determine how this process would unfold.” Zolomon’s gaze drops to his hand, eyeing the wedding band tucked in behind the monarchy ring; Barry tried to take both off earlier, with no success. “Eobard lied about the idea of a soulmate being your salvation. There was only ever one way of breaking the curse and that was the path you took when you said you would marry the man who saved you from the lake. Marriage is an oath of loyalty, which I needed to secure an invitation from you into your kingdom.”

“Very clever,” Barry replies coolly.

“I love you,” Zolomon says, apropos of nothing. Those three, simple words have the unfortunate effect of quickening Barry’s heartbeat much in the same way they did long before Barry learned of his deception. “You know it’s true, and it’s making it difficult for you to maintain your hatred of me.”

“You deserve nothing but my hatred,” he seethes.

“Perhaps.” Zolomon rises to his feet again, looking about as calm and composed as ever. “But your love brings out the best in me, so don’t abandon it just yet. After all, I was initially going to wait for your father’s natural death in lieu of killing him outright as an unspoken gift to you. It was therefore fortuitous that he was already eager to abdicate. He just made you the second most powerful being in our two worlds.”

Barry rises to his feet as well, his hands clenched into fists, tears stinging in his eyes. “I don’t love you.”

“If you say so.” Zolomon smirks at him; Barry has to resist the urge to slap it off his face. “I look forward to spending the rest of my life seducing you all over again.”

“That’s not going to happen in my lifetime.”

Zolomon takes a step back, still smiling. “Just a little food for thought. I have another gift for you, by the way. I hope this one alleviates some of the pain associated with your memories of the lake.”

Barry can’t even begin to imagine how anything in heaven or hell could ease the pain of his experience there, but Zolomon disappears before he can ask, the sharp spark of light signifying his speedy exit blinding Barry momentarily. It takes him a while to blink the stars from his eyes, but then he sees his so-called ‘gift’ swaying on his feet, clearly a little nauseated from the sudden change of scenery.

Barry’s heart nearly gives out at the sight of his old friend.

Without warning, Barry embraces one very-much-alive Cisco Ramon.

~***~

It takes them two days to reach the palace via a fishing boat shuttling any able-bodied individuals to the capital who are cruising for a fight, and, even then, they don’t quite make it all the way. The storm that had been brewing over the sea swept southward before veering back toward the mainland again, whipping itself into a proper tempest over the capital. Unable to make landfall safely, their ship pulls into shore a few miles north at the Port of Wren, which, all things considered, isn’t all that bad of an alternative.

At least, Lise hopes that isn’t. The docks are swarming with families that escaped from the capital and are eager to bypass Zolomon’s mounting forces via the sea. Lise doesn’t know where they think they’re going, precisely, seeing as Zolomon clearly controls the continent now, but she sees no point in arguing with anyone over the matter. While she and her little entourage are right on schedule, Zolomon’s army is only hours behind them and still making headway across the plains. They need to keep moving.

It is with surprising ease that they are able to find horses for the last leg of their trip at an abandoned stable outside the point. They grab four and release the others, taking off at a sprint toward the capital.

As expected, the streets are empty save for a few trampled stalls and the odd wagon, overturned or completely busted. Some people have boarded up the windows to their shops and homes, either because they are still hiding inside or fled the city while they still had the chance. Lise can feel someone’s eyes following her as they make their way steadily up the winding stone roads to the palace, the rain pelting against her back and wind whipping through her hair. She’s cold and afraid, but she knows she’s too far gone to turn back now.

“Where do you think Zolomon’s keeping him?” Len asks as they finally slow their steads to an even trot, keeping their eyes and ears open for signs of an attack.

Not for the first time since they began their mad race toward the capital, Lise wishes she had kept Cisco with her. Not only is he a marvelous people-compass, but she has a feeling he’s still around somewhere, dwelling in this hotpot of danger despite his better senses. He’s such a brave boy, but also a stupid one at that.

“Assuming he’s still alive, Barry’s chambers are in that tower to the far right,” Hartley replies, pointing to the palace in the distance, looming over the many houses still standing between them and it. “Alternatively, Zolomon could be keeping him in the dungeons below the palace, but they haven’t been used or maintained in over a century. Most prisoners are either kept at the ‘Crag’ or one of the smaller jails along the coast.”

“Zolomon likes to keep his enemies close,” Lise says. “I bet you anything, he’s in the palace. I can probably access it myself from the west wall.”

Hartley nods. “Barry’s tower overlooks the sea. So, if you can scale the wall, you might be able to get in and out without too much trouble.” He glances over to Len, on his left. “I guess that means the three of us will search the dungeons?”

Len glances down at his tattered clothes, having not yet had the opportunity to change since escaping the world below. “Can we rely on your cloaking spell to get us in and out of there, kid?”

“I don’t know,” Hartley sighs. “My spell didn’t work so well in the world below, so I’m not sure if it works against all sidhe.”

“Then we’ll need a disguise, just in case.”

Mick grunts in amusement behind them. Lise assumes this means they already have a standard protocol for situations like these.

Which, as it turns out, they do. About five blocks from the palace, they encounter a small patrol of six guards dressed in navy blue uniforms. Naturally, the humans come to an abrupt halt, clearly not expecting visitors at this bleak period in their kingdom’s history, and so there’s a moment’s delay before they draw their swords.

“ _Whoa_ ,” Hartley interjects, raising his hands in front of himself in a show of peace. “We’re on your side.”

“We know,” one of the men solemnly replies. “We have no choice but to command you to—”

Len, who obviously doesn’t have the patience for this kind of nonsense, waves his right hand to the side, as if gesturing them out of the way. In reality, he bats them aside _hard_ with tiny pellets of ice that leap up from the steady stream of water running down the cobblestone street. The four guards are battered into the side of a shop, disappear for all of three seconds under the unholy spray, and then drop to the ground, unconscious.

Hartley sniffles a little, as if he doesn’t know what to think of that display. “Overkill, but whatever.”

Len shoots him daggers with his silvery eyes, which puts an end to pretty much any future arguments.

Though her three companions then dismount, Lise opts to forgo the disguise altogether. “I’m going to ride down to the beach and approach the palace from there.”

Len glances up at the ever darkening sky, completely soaked to the bone from the torrential downpour. “Be careful, Lise.”

“Of course,” she assures him, complete with a little wink.

In reality, she’s horrified by the mess she’s gotten herself into. Unfortunately, inaction is no longer an option for her, least of all because of what she fears might happen to her limited group of loved ones if Zolomon succeeds in his final endeavour.

The ride to the beach is a piece of cake, due to the fact that the waves crashing against the shore are powerful enough to suck any unfortunate soul out to sea in a single pass and the place is therefore empty. She keeps as far away from their reach as she possibly can, bare feet digging into the damp sand, calling up her vines from the bowels of the earth. She realizes she must look quite the sight, a drenched soul steadily making her way toward the palace, wet hair and cape billowing in the wind. She is frozen to her core when she reaches the palace itself, having to reach deep within her internal well of power to coax her vines from the ground and up the smooth stone surface of Bartholomew’s tower.

Climbing her vines in these conditions is a nightmare, one she is only able to safely navigate with the few vines curled around her waist, simultaneously pulling her upward while keeping her pressed against the wall no matter how hard the wind tries to buffet her from her perch.

It feels like a small eternity before she reaches the balcony to the prince’s chambers. Her arms and legs feel like lead weights, and she has one hell of a neck migraine, but she’s somehow able to pull herself up over the railing. Internally, she sends off a quick prayer to the Creator that Bartholomew is here, and it is with mixed joy and relief that none other than her darling Cisco is the one who opens the balcony doors to investigate the dark mass writhing outside the windows.

“How did you find me?” he exclaims, voice cracking adorably on a high note.

“Lucky guess,” she replies, gratefully taking the hand he offers to pull her to her feet. Together, they dart inside the room, slamming the doors shut against the weather.

Lise knows she looks like a drowned rat, so she’s wholly anticipating the curious look on the prince’s face as he helps Cisco haul her over to a chaise lounge. They deposit her there gently, and then the boy asks, “How on earth did you get up here?”

Still a little out of breath, she waves her hand to dismiss his question. “Not important. Cisco, darling, come here.”

Confused, her lover gingerly sits down beside her on the chaise lounge. She immediately threads her hands in his soft locks and kisses him boldly against the lips.

He tenses in shock at first, but quickly melts under her touch. When they pull apart, he’s got a goofy smile on his face. “What was that for?” he asks.

“So you wouldn’t get jealous,” she chirps, feeling better already.

She rises gracefully to her full height, cups Bartholomew’s face with her hands, and kisses him ever so gently on the lips.

She’s killed men and brought them back from the brink of death with her powers. In her mind, she wills this boy the power of his nemesis, to be made his equal in every way imaginable and to find the strength to carry on his looming battle to the point of victory. Whether or not he succeeds in this endeavour is up to him, but she likes to imagine the universe will side with her on this one.

Nothing miraculous happens when she pulls away. Bartholomew simply blinks at her in shock, glancing urgently from Cisco and back to her as he stutters out, “I’m—I’m married?”

“That sounded like a question,” Lise replies.

“It’s a long story,” Cisco chimes in. Thankfully, he doesn’t sound upset, probably because he remembers her story about the Nemesis Kiss. “The abridged version is that he married Zolomon without knowing who he really was, and then a few days ago they were coronated. Zolomon’s long con worked out, and now we’re all waiting for him to drag us down to the world below.”

Ah, yes. She had feared as much…

“Well, this should even out the playing field,” Lise says, trying to sound optimistic, poking Bartholomew gently over his heart “You, your majesty, now have it within your power to right all wrongs. Consider this the eleventh hour. How are you feeling?”

“The same as ever,” he mutters. “Angry, sad…afraid. I haven’t seen Zolomon in the last two days, and I’m terrified of finding out what he’s done to my people.”

“They’re his people, too, now,” she points out. “And he’s doing to them what he does in every kingdom he overthrows: picks out the best of the best and adds them to his army. As soon as his more disciplined soldiers come spilling over the horizon, he should feel secure in mounting his attack against Leuis.”

She sees it finally—a small spark in the new king’s eyes. He frowns, clearly displeased with this bit of news. “I can’t let him do that.”

“Then _don’t_. Get out there and stop him.”

“How?” he waves his hand toward the door. “I already tried picking the lock. Even the concealed entrance behind my wardrobe won’t open. I’m pretty sure they’ve been enchanted to keep me in here.”

“Then try the other exit,” she sighs, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder at the balcony doors.

Expectedly, Bartholomew gives her an incredulous look. “How?”

“Oh, it’s easy!” she trills, grabbing him by the wrist and leading him over. She flings open one door, smiling into the cold spray of the tempest, exclaiming, “I’ll show you!”

Cautiously, Bartholomew allows her to drag him out there, where she leans slightly over the railing and points down toward the ocean. “Do you see that?”

He leans forward to follow her line of regard.

Which is precisely when she grabs him by the nap of his neck and shoves him over.

Cisco lets loose one of the most horrifically high-pitched shrieks she has ever heard as he races outside to save his friend. He’s too late, of course, so he just leans over the edge to watch his true king plummet to his death. “ _YOU KILLED HIM_!”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she snaps, but her annoyance quickly gives way to elation when she sees a spark of light below, a sharp snap of lightning that dances across the choppy waves and angles itself toward the beach.

And just like that, the king is off to a good start.

Lise leans back again and smiles at Cisco, who’s jaw has comically dropped in disbelief.

Oh, she does so _love_ all his funny little faces.

With a heavy heart, she coaxes his chin back up with her index finger and presses a quick peck against the corner of his mouth. When he turns to look at her, adoration shining in his eyes, sopping wet with rain and still looking just as handsome as the day they first met, she softly says, “If you remember anything of me, let it be that I loved you.”

She hates to see that beautiful face pinched with confusion, so she doesn’t allow him to ask his burning question before her vines snap up to ensnare him by the arms and legs, dragging him bodily back into the sanctuary of his friend’s chambers. “Lise!” he cries, struggling to free himself. “ _Lise_! You can’t go! You can’t—”

His protestations are cut short when the balcony doors slam shut again and her vines begin to creep up over the window, keeping him safe and sound for the time being.

Heartsick, she hops up onto the railing and swings her legs over the edge. Carefully, she begins her trek downward, silently grateful to have been blessed with such a friend.

~***~

Getting through the barbican and over the bridge leading into the palace proper is painfully easy.

Len _hates_ it when his plans go smoothly, usually because it means there’s some creeping danger he hasn’t taken into account yet. Never, in all his life, has he been able to complete one of his heists without some small adjustment, and he wholly anticipates finding Barry to be no different considering the added difficulty.

All the same, he, Mick, and Hartley fall in line with everyone else gathering in the central courtyard. The rain is somehow lighter here, as if this were the eye of the storm. All around him, men and women dressed in navy blue uniform coats and caps are milling about, setting up tarps and carrying out crates of weapons. In the far east corner, a large group of able-bodied civilians are being issued uniforms as well, all of them looking grim, including the man rattling off instructions to them.

Len shifts his gaze from left to right, making note of the various entrances into the palace and the number of soldiers coming and going. Getting to the dungeons shouldn’t be a problem. Whisking Barry out of here, on the other hand, could prove tricky, depending on whether or not Hartley’s spell works completely this time around. Len will just have to play the game by ear and keep his eyes open for any opportunities.

Len inclines his head slightly to the left, where Mick and Hartley are walking abreast with him. “In exactly fifteen seconds, we’re—where are you going?”

The answer, of course, is off to god-knows-where, because he instructed them immediately after they stole their disguises not to leave his side unless told otherwise. And they aren’t even sticking together themselves. Hartley is making a beeline for a group of whom Len recognizes as King Henry’s court sorcerers while Mick falls into line with several other soldiers standing at attention, even going so far as to drop the bag housing his invention on the ground at his feet like so much junk.

Len’s so bewildered by their behavior, he slows to stop under a white canopy overhanging a rack of spears and stares at them kind of dumbfounded for a moment, hoping they’re simply reacting to something he hasn’t noticed yet. However, as soon as Hartley joins his former colleagues, the young man turns back around and mouths, _‘What is happening?’_ to Len.

“It’s the conscription.”

Startled, Len’s eyes snap to the blonde man suddenly standing to the left of him. Len hadn’t heard him approach.

He’s prepared to ignore the man altogether, but then he’s hit with the coppery taste of electricity and the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stand straight up.

Though they’ve never been formally introduced, Len knows this stranger all too well.

This is none other than Eobard Thawne.

“We requested volunteers,” Eobard continues, eyes scanning the people still filing into the courtyard, “but after everyone tried to flee the city, the Emperor was forced to formalize his order. Your companions cannot disobey.”

That narrative reminds him so much of his ordeal with Leuis it turns his stomach him. His father had a similar sway over his own people, with the added bonus of completely overriding all thoughts and feelings. Len has no problem understanding why Lise couldn’t get behind the idea of Zolomon being a better replacement to the current King of the Sidhe.

Len tries to keep his temper from boiling over as he says, “You _do_ realize the humans won’t stand much of a chance in the world below, don’t you?”

“They’re more resourceful than you think,” Eobard muses, glancing over his shoulder at the rack of weapons. “At least when they have a piece of iron in their hand.”

“Even so, I’m sure this is one war they wouldn’t mind missing out on.”

“It will be over quickly,” a new voice assures him. “Your father doesn’t stand a chance against us.”

Beyond the distant wail of the wind and the soft patter of rain, an unnatural hush falls over the courtyard.

Everyone stops to face the man now standing atop the stairs before the two great doors of palace, a handsome fellow adorned in pitch black armor. In lieu of a helmet, an obsidian crown rests upon his head;  though no sword hangs at his hip, Len doesn’t fancy him weaponless.

 _This_ , he knows, is Zolomon, the Emperor of the world above.

And the man who’s taken Barry away from him.

People clear the base of the stairs quickly as Zolomon makes his way down to the courtyard, adjusting the inner straps of his right vambrace. Also much like Len’s father, he exudes a kind of arrogance that he finds as equally nauseating. It couples nicely with the burning sensation at the back of Len’s throat and the alarm ringing in his head, telling him he’s in deeper trouble than he could possibly handle by himself right now.

“You’re a long way from home,” Zolomon continues, finally satisfied with the armor on his forearm. He drags his gaze over to Len, giving him a slow once-over. “Not that I blame you. After all, our fathers were cut from the same cloth—in fact, I’m almost tempted to invite you into the fold for that very reason. Killing one’s sire is an incredibly cathartic experience.”

“Let me guess,” Len mutters, “You’re turned off by the idea of having to share the glory with the offspring of your enemy.”

“If that were true, I wouldn’t have tried to recruit your sister.” There’s a spark now in Zolomon’s eyes, a curious glint of gold or light or something else beyond Len’s understanding. It’s accompanied by anger, at least that much Len can tell. “No, I don’t feel particularly fond of you because you have a habit of coveting that which is not yours.”

Knowing Eobard spied on him and Barry in the forest, Len always wondered if the other sidhe had relayed the _exact_ details of all the little things the two of them did together to his master. He feels exposed—although he feels considerably _worse_ for Barry, of whose fate he’s still uncertain.

“Where is Prince Bartholomew?” Len seethes, cutting to the chase.

“The ‘prince’ is no more,” Zolomon replies smoothly. Len’s pulse jumps in his throat. He feels colder than he aught to at the thought of Barry dead, but then Zolomon continues. “He’s been crowned with a much greater glory as my husband.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence on Len’s part before his grief turns to anger. The part of him that is less than human rears up in indignation at Barry’s fate and calls forth the cold from the very core of his being. It’s already a little chilly outside from the rain, but he can see his breath now in the air and so can the people closets to him, which the only warning they get that something bad is about to happen.

The rain turns to ice before it hits the ground, levelled there in midair before Lem redirects it toward Zolomon. Unfortunately, Eobard is already moving, a smear of light that crosses directly between them. He bats the icicles away in a blink of an eye, shattering them against the ground, startling the humans a safe distance back from the dueling sidhe.

“Back off,” Len growls as the cold gives way to the same numbness he experienced under Leuis’ watchful eye, that turning point from the fear of bodily harm to a sense of level-headed apathy that he is begrudgingly grateful for in this moment. “This is between me and him.”

Eobard cocks his head to one side as if he can’t believe Len would make such a demand in his position. Zolomon outright laughs, “I think I would much rather save my energy for more a pleasurable pursuit tonight with my husband.”

Len _knows_ Zolomon is just trying to rile him up, but it’s unfortunately working. It’s also unfortunate that Eobard doesn’t care much for witty banter. He’s already in motion again, running circles around Len, lightning licking the air in his wake. He’s building up a wall of raw energy that radiates an infernal heat, pulling forth something sinister and unseen in the space between them. Len feels electrified for a split second before he’s blinded by light and sent flying into the air.

Curiously, he’s not in any pain—until the landing. He hits the top of one of the white canopies and then falls straight through onto a table laden with maps. It collapses beneath the combined weight of him and whoever has their arms wrapped around his waist, leaving him winded for a few seconds as he tries to get his bearings again.

He’s initially confused as to why Eobard would waste all that energy on body-slamming him instead of outright electrocuting him, but then Barry lifts his head from Len’s chest and tries to roll off the sword belted to Len’s hip, laughing in a pained sort of way as he says, “I didn’t break anything, did I?”

Even through his self-induced haze, Len can tell the damage is minimal. He still feels electrified, but in a different way now, both shocked and elated by Barry’s unexpected intervention. “Not at all,” he breathes.

For some reason, Barry’s smiling at him, tears brimming in his lovely green eyes. Still lying over Len, he touches Len’s jaw almost reverently and says, “You came back for me.”

 _‘Of course,’_ Len wants to say. Instead, he cups the back of Barry’s head and pulls him down for a long overdue kiss.

It doesn’t last as long as he would’ve liked, but they hardly have the time for a proper reunion. He transitions from lying flat on his back to suddenly standing behind Barry within the circle of spectators in the blink of an eye. Eobard and Zolomon stand together before them, though only the former is eyeing Barry with the wariness he deserves.

Zolomon looks mildly amused. He stares at Barry for a long moment with a hint of a smile before shifting his gaze to Len. “I take it your sister is nearby?”

“Just passing through,” Len mutters, hoping to put her from Zolomon’s mind as soon as possible.

“She’s clever,” Zolomon muses. “All things considered, Bartholomew _is_ the only person in this world not wholly under my control and who happens knows me well enough to hate me above all others. I would almost applaud Lise for her choice, if not for one minor oversight.”

Len can practically see the way Barry’s shoulders tense as he braces himself for the punchline.

“Bartholomew took the same marriage vow as I did,” Zolomon explains. “He already knows he can’t kill me.”

That’s…unfortunate. It feels like one hell of a punch in the gut after all the effort it’s taken them to finally get here and face this monster down. Of course, even _if_ Len had known about the marriage, he still can’t think of anyone who hates Zolomon more than Leuis besides Barry.

However, even with this ‘oversight’, this still isn’t the end for them.

“Fine,” Len sighs, resting his hand on Barry’s shoulder. When Barry glances back at him, Len nods toward Eobard and says, “You take him. I’ll worry about your husband.”

“Here’s a better idea,” Zolomon interjects, no longer amused. He looks over at Barry. “Stand down, or I’ll have your friend skinned alive.” Then he turns his gaze to the troop of soldiers on his left and waves them forward.

Len doesn’t think he’s had so many people draw their swords on him all at once. He’s also grown more of an aversion to the iron in the last couple of months. Getting skewered by a group of people Barry _probably_ doesn’t want him to kill is going to be a challenge, especially if Zolomon decides everyone in the goddamn courtyard should get in on a little of the action.

“Stop,” Barry says, sounding more annoyed than anything.

Miraculously, his soldiers do just that.

“We’re ‘equal in all things’,” Barry continues, now addressing his husband. “Which I distinctly remember _also_ being a very important part of our wedding vows. So you’re not skinning anyone alive or using my people for your war if I have anything to say about it, Zolomon. This ends now.”

At long last, Zolomon’s face darkens, the first sign that he’s encountered a problem beyond his control. “You can’t undo what I’ve already set in motion, Bartholomew, least of all because you don’t know all that you need to do in order to stop me. Right now, you’re only delaying the inevitable.”

“Until death do us part,” Barry mutters.

Len’s about to add his two cents to the conversation again—but there’s a burst of light from Eobard that cuts him short.

Fortunately, Barry immediately vanishes in a similar fashion, pulled into a peculiar streak of red and yellow light that whips straight past Len and up the wall.

As tempted as Len is to watch the display, he knows this is the wrong time to turn his back on Zolomon. So, he extends his hand toward his own opponent, palm forward, and delves back into the cold void inside himself. At his bidding, the rain cools and condenses into a solid wall of ice directly in front of Zolomon’s now charging path as the other sidhe finally joins the fray. Len can see a smear of blue light diverting its course around the obstacle to the left, and so that is where he aims his next volley of ice, knowing he needs to preserve the distance between them to afford himself the time he needs to react to an attack.

He can tell at least some of his projectiles hit their target when Zolomon then veers sharply to the right and skids to a halt twenty feet away—deftly side-stepping the second sliver Len condenses behind his back before almost slipping in the mud. Startled, Zolomon crouches lower then, preparing to dart forward again, and Len throws up another wall.

The weather, it would seem, is working entirely to his advantage tonight.

~***~

What Barry felt after Cisco’s ‘companion’ pushed him off the balcony is almost indescribable.

It was as if the whole universe was suddenly humming in every limb, digit, and bone, a long, low drone that he could practically feel vibrating in his teeth. It was both electrifying and terrifying at once, and yet he never once wanted to stop running, so energized by his newfound powers that he couldn’t ever imagine being this happy standing still.

The floodgates were opened, and they were never going to close, ever again.

He feels much the same way when he realizes Eobard is about to make his move. Barry chases him up the wall and back down again before he can warn Len’s that the fight is about to begin, mystified by the change in gravity that accompanies moving at an accelerated speed. Perhaps more so when he realizes he’s done at least a dozen laps around the courtyard in his attempt to catch up with Eobard and isn’t the least bit tired. He’s drawing from some unknown spring of energy to fuel himself as he runs, legs pumping like they never have before. It’s a miracle, considering how weak he was even just a few days ago.

Barry doesn’t know what Eobard’s endgame is in this little chase, so he tries to run _smarter_ on the next lap, running up the back of a wagon inside of the wall, and vaulting across the small space between them to body check Eobard to the ground. The sudden transition back to a normal speed is jarring though, even more so when they end up rolling together quite a few feet through the mud.

People back off immediately, giving both Barry and Eobard both plenty of space to stagger to their feet. Barry takes this momentary reprieve to glance over at the centre of the courtyard where there appears to be a maze of ever-growing pillars of ice. Zolomon is dancing between them in a streak of blue light and shows no sign of slowing, but Barry still has to commend Len for holding his own against the other sidhe for as long as he already has.

Barry doesn’t allow himself to be distracted for long. Both he and Eobard snap back into action immediately, although Barry doesn’t have much of a strategy when it comes to short-range combat without a weapon. In fact, his _sole_ strategy at the moment is to arm himself, so he makes a mad dash for one of the weapon racks—only to get side-checked by Eobard, slamming headfirst into one of the posts holding the canopy open over it.

He lands in the mud again in a minor daze, further disorientated by the stretch of white cloth covering him. He kicks it off and clambers back to his feet, turning to search for Eobard, and bats his enemy’s arm away when Eobard reaches out to strike Barry with his fist. Barry feels a quick thrill of excitement for deflecting the blow, but his success is short-lived as Eobard slams his other fist up into Barry’s diaphragm, winding him hard enough to knock him to his knees.

“You _stupid_ boy,” Eobard snaps, looming over him. He winds up his leg to kick Barry, catching him again in the ribs; Barry just about loses the contents of his stomach right there in the mud. “You have _everything_. Why do you resist?”

“I won’t let you kill my people,” Barry wheezes, staggering to his feet. He feels shaky, like he just might vomit despite his best efforts not to, and he’s having trouble seeing past all the tiny black dots dancing across his vision. He wishes he’d invested a little time training in hand-to-hand combat in his youth instead of focusing exclusively on swordplay or archery, but there’s nothing he could do about that now. Eobard is clearly comfortable getting up close and personal in a fight, and Barry needs to come up with a plan to put a little distance between them soon.

Which is easier said than done. He welcomes the flow of power through him once again, every fibre of his being lighting up as he turns and runs, vaulting off the soft ground and up against the stone wall surrounding the courtyard. He doesn’t know how far he needs to run to gain some much needed distance, but a quick glance over his shoulder reveals that Eobard is pretty keen on keeping him within an arm’s reach. His opponent looks like a being of pure light, a tiny sun dangling precariously close in the periphery of his vision, and he’s steadily gaining on Barry.

Sure enough, Barry soon feels a hand tugging on the back of his coat collar before his legs slip out from under him and he’s sent careening into the ground. It’s a wonder he doesn’t die on impact, though he almost wishes he had. As he rolls to a halt in the mud, he just lies there, staring up into the stormy sky, chest heaving. Every bone in his body aches. He doesn’t think anything is broken, but that’s only because he’s not screaming yet, though he’s sure he’ll reach that point sometime tonight.

“Stay down,” Eobard growls, now standing on the ground, slowly advancing. Lightning dances in his eyes. “Surrender to me and end this fight.”

Barry takes a deep breath, trying to will his body to relax. “No,” he says, the answer coming as quick and clear to him as it ever has before.    

Barry knows that ‘ _No’_ just so happens to be Eobard’s least favorite word, so he’s already mentally braced for whatever painful delights the other man has in store for him. He pushes himself gingerly to his feet, body still aching, tensing for the next hit—and blinks in surprise when Eobard just about trips in the mud.

The other man maintains his balance by sheer luck and glances down in equal surprise at his right foot, which doesn’t appear to want to budge. However, their combined confusion dissipates almost immediately when they notice the small sprig of ivy winding itself up his ankle and steadily further along his leg. Another vine jumps out of the ground to catch his right wrist just as he reaches to draw the small dagger at his hip, followed shortly by even more vines keen on pinning him where he stands.

In the corner of his eye, Barry spots the sidhe Cisco apparently met in the Apagorev Forest as she steps out from the shadow of a half-collapsed canopy, her hand outstretched toward Eobard as she slowly closes the distance between them. Her hair and robes are completely soaked through from the rain and her bare feet are caked with mud. She looks utterly exhausted.

And pissed.

Keeping her arm raised against Eobard, she spares Barry only a glance. “Zolomon’s foot soldiers are almost at the palace gate,” she informs him. Then she nods her head toward the other battle currently underway. “My brother doesn’t realize it yet, but Zolomon is only playing with him, tiring him out. The killing blow is coming soon.”

Barry’s heart leaps up into his throat. He glances anxiously between the maze of ice and Eobard.

“Barry—” Eobard tries to say, just before the woman’s vines crawl up over his mouth.

“Leave this one to me,” she says wearily, coaxing one of her vines to tug the dagger free from his belt. “Please, distract Zolomon. I can’t lose my brother.”

She doesn’t have to tell him twice. Barry summons the lightning within himself and takes off toward the centre of the courtyard, weaving between two pillars of ice and darting around a solid wall before he spots Len, nearly frozen in time, hand raised against Zolomon. From this angle, Barry can tell this next shot is going to miss and tries to shift his body weight to correct his course in the hope of knocking Zolomon back into Len’s range. However, he slips on a patch of ice and instead slams bodily into one of the pillars, shattering it on impact and consequently slamming himself back into the normal flow of time.

Len suffers a similar fate when Zolomon’s shoulder connects with his sternum at high speed, sending him flying into a wall of ice. Barry climbs back to his feet immediately and watches as Len shoves the broken shards off his body, looking more peeved than anything from where he’s lying sprawled on the ground. Clearly, he’s more accustomed to taking a beating than Barry is, because one of those shards lifts into the air seemingly of its own accord as soon as Len hits the ground and flies off toward Zolomon, an admittedly fast counterstrike considering how much his landing probably hurt.

Zolomon, unfortunately, catches it in his right hand just before it can pierce his breast plate. Eyes alight, he winds up his arm and tosses the shard right back at Len, nailing him in the chest close to his left shoulder.

Barry feels like someone’s knocked the breath out of him again as he watches the beginning of the end unfold.

Len chokes out a cry of agony, pressing a hand up against the wound to stem the flow of blood before Barry’s brain catches up to the rest of him and he scrambles to Len’s side. Barry shrugs off his ruined coat and then reaches up to tear off one of his white shirt sleeves. It’s completely soaked through from the rain, but at least it’s relatively clean. He moves Len’s hand momentarily to press the bundled cloth up around the shard of ice.

Len’s bloody hand shakes as he lays it over Barry’s. He doesn’t speak, but look in his eyes says he, too, knows the battle is as good as over now.

“Stop,” Barry cries, craning his head toward Zolomon. “ _Please_. Don’t kill him.”

“I told you to stand down earlier,” Zolomon replies, clenching and unclenching his right hand at his side, blue lightning dancing across his knuckles. He glances briefly toward the main gate, where soldiers in black armor are now slowly filling into the courtyard. His personal army has finally arrived. “You refused, Bartholomew. So, let this be a lesson to you. When I offer you kindness, don’t refuse me.”

 _“What kindness?”_ echoes a voice.

Alarmed, Zolomon’s eyes scan the pillars and the crowd beyond them, searching for the source. Over the patter of rain and the deep rumble of thunder overhead, Barry imagines he’s having trouble sussing out the direction of the voice by sound alone.

Tense, Zolomon continues clenching and unclenching his hand.

For the barest moment, Barry sees a shadow shifting along the wall of ice directly behind Zolomon. In fact, he’s almost certain he imagined it, what with his nerves being as frayed as they are right now.

Then he sees it, a pale hand curled into a fist beside Zolomon’s throat—but no sooner has his assailant struck than Zolomon reaches up to grab the offending appendage, energy igniting the air around him in a brilliant flash of light.

Barry tries to blink the resulting specks of color from his eyes. The blindness passes quickly, but what greets him is a dismal sight.

The sidhe woman is kneeling in the mud, cradling her right hand to her chest. There’s a black streak of burnt flesh along her forearm, her face twisted in agony. Barry can feel Len moving under his hands, no doubt desperate to run to his sister’s aid despite his condition. Injured as she is, she’s practically defenseless now.

Barry is expecting some further form of retaliation from Zolomon. He’s therefore surprised when Zolomon just stands there, hand raised to his throat, silent but for a soft sound of surprise.

Barry finally shifts his gaze from the woman to his husband—now baffled by the dribble of blood at the corner of Zolomon’s lips. It’s then that he realizes Zolomon’s hand is curled around the handle of the blade buried in his jugular. He takes a half-step back before his knees buckle and he collapses to the ground, dead.

Zolomon’s soldiers slow in their advance, standing as stock still and silent as the humans around them. It’s a peculiar reaction, but Barry doesn’t have much time to ponder it as the woman reaches over with her good arm to pluck Zolomon’s dark crown from his brow. With a great deal of effort, she then forces herself to her feet, swaying for a second, then turns to face the Zolomon’s dark army and finally places the crown atop her head.

The unnerving silence from the crowd persists until the woman opens her mouth and says, “ _Kneel_.”

Sure enough, everyone in the courtyard takes a knee before her. If Barry weren’t already on the ground, he assumes he would also feel compelled to obey. Obviously then, there’s been an official shift of power from Zolomon to the enemy who felled him.

All that was once Zolomon’s is now hers to do with as she pleases.

Taking a deep breath, she continues. “I am Lisamarie, daughter of King Leuis and the new Empress of the world above.”

Relief washes over Barry like a wave, eyes stinging with tears as he realizes Zolomon is truly dead and gone now, that he no longer has any sway over Barry’s life.

Len squeezes his hand gently, drawing Barry’s attention away from Lisamarie for the moment. He looks calm. Relaxed, almost, which is quite the feat considering how much pain he must be in.

Lisamarie continues her speech unbidden, sounding louder and clearer than she did at first. “Tomorrow, we begin our battle against my father’s kingdom. However, those of you who are human might want to consider sitting this one out.” There’s a sudden buzz of voices, some sounding surprised, most relieved. For clarification she says, “In case you’re wondering, this is your cue to return to your daily lives. Consider yourselves dismissed.”

Everyone rises to their feet. Lisamarie’s sidhe soldiers stay where they are, standing at attention as human civilians flood passed them through the palace gates, more or less making a break for it to their homes and families. In that same instant, Hartley Rathaway, Tina McGee, and Caitlin Snow make a sudden beeline across the courtyard toward Barry and Len, all falling upon the latter to deal with his wound. Barry finally relinquishes his hold. He rises to his feet and takes a step back, affording them the room they need to work, hoping Len is half as resilient and he pretends to be.

In the corner of Barry’s eye, he catches a brief flash of light. He whips his head around just in time to catch sight of Eobard brushing the torn vines from his arms and legs, staring long and hard at Zolomon’s fallen form before he turns his gaze on the new Empress.

Barry feels as though some silent message passes between the two sidhe before Lisamarie says, “Leave. I’ll deal with you later.”

Barry opens his mouth to protest, but Eobard is already gone, vanishing in another burst of light. Barry is tempted to take off after him, but Lisamarie pre-emptively raises a finger toward him, warning him to hold that thought. “I would like to be charitable with you, but the issue of Eobard Thawne is not something I am willing to negotiate. He has his uses to me.”

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth knowing Eobard’s slipped away virtually scot-free, but Barry knows he isn’t in a position to complain. Lisamarie has already been gracious enough to release his people. That’s more than he could’ve hoped for when he woke up today.

When she realizes he isn’t going to argue with her, she smiles. Then she gathers her wet robes up as well as she can with her good arm and slowly makes her way through the muck to stand before him, somehow still managing to look majestic despite the state she’s in. “I would like to make a deal with you,” she says.

“I’m not in any position to deny you,” Barry reminds her, though it pleases him to know his genuine cooperation is wanted. “What exactly do you need from me?”

She glances over her shoulder at Zolomon’s cooling body. He looks so… _human_ lying there on the ground, dull eyes staring endlessly up into the sky as his blood pools beneath him. Looking at him— _really_ looking at him sends a shiver down Barry’s spine, accompanied by an unexpected twinge of pain in his heart, the barest hint of conflict over Barry’s ill-won affections for this man.

Here lies the man who deceived him; however, here, too, lies the man who tried to love Barry as well as any monster ever could.

“Though everything that was once his is now mine, I’m not a fan of adopting spouses,” Lisamarie explains as she returns her attention to Barry, “so you can consider any potential marriage between us null. At the same time, I’m not too keen on having to keep an eye on two worlds simultaneously, so allowing you to keep your position as king appeals greatly to me.”

Obviously, it does to Barry as well. “I’m assuming you would still be the highest authority in all the land?” he clarifies.

“Of course,” she laughs, a beautiful trill unlike anything he’s ever heard of. Barry can see why Cisco liked talking about her so much. “But I’m content to leave the decision-making to you when it comes to matters of the world above— _if_ you’re willing to give me a sign of good will.”

Traditionally, Barry knows making a deal with the sidhe is supposed to be a bad thing. However, with Lisamarie, he feels as though he might actually benefit from helping this one out. “…What _kind_ of sign would satisfy you, your imperial majesty?”

She smiles again at the title, clearly pleased with the turn of events. As she rightly should be. “A marriage between two families usually does the trick,” she muses, suddenly side-eyeing her brother where he’s still lying on the ground.

 _“Lise,”_ Len growls, followed shortly by a sharp order from Caitlin not to move.

Ignoring him, Barry smiles in return and says, “I’m listening.”

~***~

~*~

~***~

He knows he sticks out like a sore thumb.

He doesn’t care.

In fact, he’s getting a kick out annoying this Clifford fellow, the one who keeps pulling him aside to rattle off each and every rule of etiquette he breaks in a day, whether it be walking down the wrong corridor in the middle of the night or coughing too loud at the dinner table. Len’s only been here four weeks and already he imagines the man is plotting his murder, if for no other reason than the fact that Len gray rocks him at every turn, not so much as batting an eyelash whenever he’s accosted.

Of course, it helps that, despite the obvious trust issues everyone in the palace now has with strangers, Len is not without his allies. Hartley spends a considerable amount of time running interference with Clifford, along with some other kid named Francisco who’s loyalties to both Barry and Lise border fanatical. Len also finds an unexpected friend in the real Harrison Wells, whom he learns Lise recently reunited with his wife as a form of compensation for whatever Eobard did to him. Mind you, Len’s not sure there _is_ a way to compensate for whatever kind of trouble Eobard got up to in his body, but there’s a certain light in Harrison’s eyes when he speaks of his family that Len thinks is probably as good as any sign that true happiness is just around the corner for him.

Len’s ultimate ally, of course, is Bartholomew himself, the technical king of every kingdom on the continent until he can restore the respective royal families to their thrones. Len’s barely seen him since Lise more or less abandoned him here, although he knows Barry’s been laboring over a way to restore world order. Realistically, the kid’s going to have his work cut out for him for years to come.

So, Len keeps his head down and tries to stay out of the way, until he’s dragged into the old king’s office early one morning and subjected to the longest shovel talk of his life—which he takes to mean Barry is probably going to search him out before the day is over with some kind of news. And he does, looking a little flush with embarrassment when he finally manages to chase Len down in the corridor leading to Len’s temporary quarters in the west wing.

“I’m sorry,” are the first two words out of Barry’s mouth, followed immediately by, “What did my father say to you?”

“It was a private meeting,” Len admonishes him coyly, laying the humor on thick with his usual drawl. As anticipated, he successfully coaxes a small smile out of his companion. “But if you _really_ must know, we had an awfully long discussion over what exactly my intentions are with you.”

Which is only half the truth. Henry was actually a relatively pleasant fellow to chat with, but Len has never had to swear so many oaths to a single person in all his life. He knows the former king was just covering his bases in case Lise decided to backstab the humans in the near future, a la Zolomon, although Len thinks the old man went a little overboard with a few of those vows…

Barry winces in sympathy. “It’s nothing personal.”

“I know.” Len glances over his shoulder down the empty corridor and then takes Barry by the wrist, leading him gently aside into the shadow of a nearby pillar. They’ve barely had a moment alone together since Len was deemed fit to leave his bed, though his chest wound still aches every now and again. “He also told me you wanted to offer me an out for our upcoming arrangement, that you didn’t think it was fair my sister was forcing me into this.”

Barry begins anxiously rubbing at the knuckles of his left hand and says, “Well…yeah? I mean, I know we were kind of affectionate with one another when I was still a prisoner of the lake, but you’ve been through a lot since then, and if I married every man who ever ogled me, I’d have to introduce a whole new religion to the kingdom. I’m not going to force you into a union you don’t want.”

That’s…adorable, actually, because as _if_ Lise could ever make him do something he didn’t want to, even as his technical Empress.

Len’s a firm believer that actions speak louder than words, so he cups Barry’s face by way of an explanation and holds him steady for a relatively tame kiss. A part of him would really like to take it step further than that, but unfortunately one of the vows Henry squeezed from him earlier today was an oath of chastity, which nixes any opportunity for a little pre-marriage entertainment.

A bit of bad timing, that.

“My sister isn’t forcing me into anything,” Len explains as soon as he pulls away. “In fact, she’s doing me a favor.”

“A favor?” Barry breathes, sounding a little as though Len just turned his brain to mush.

“I’ve had eyes for you since we first met,” he continues, shelfing his humor for the moment. “You make me feel human, Barry. Words can’t describe how much I’ve come to admire and adore you, so please don’t assume I’m only doing this because I have no other choice.”

There’s a moment of silence before Barry softly says, “But I failed you.”

“How so?” Len challenges. “Zolomon preyed upon your weaknesses to get the answers he was searching for. Even if you did love him, it was a love born of deception.”

Head still in Len’s hands, Barry nods weakly. “I don’t know what I felt for him.” He smiles faintly, another twitch at the corner of his lips shining through the gloom. “You, on the other hand…you stayed with me in the darkness when you easily could’ve left me to my fate. And then, when my enemies were victorious, you came again to save me. I respect you, and I love you, and I would very much like to spend the rest of my life with you.”

As a thief who’s been on the run from his own family for practically his entire life, Len never thought he’d be so fortunate to hear those exact words from anyone.

He kisses Barry a second time, crowding him up against the pillar.

They stay together like that for quite some time, hearts suspended in that sacred space between heaven and hell.

~*Epilogue*~

Barry retires to his chambers, politely dismissing the servants that trail behind him and offer to help him dress down for the night. He never asked for anyone’s help when he was a prince, and he’s not looking to change that policy as a king, craving privacy now more than ever before since becoming the centre of everyone’s attention.

In the security of his room, Barry removes his crown and sets it down on his vanity, garnets and red toluamides glittering in the moonlight that streams into the room from the balcony doors. He then unbuttons his white coat, waistcoat, and shirt, setting all aside in the wardrobe with the rest of his official attire. His boots and trousers follow shortly as he continues stripping away each layer, feeling deliciously free in his nudity when he finally slips under the cool sheets of his bed. Then he settles his head back against the small mountain of pillows and closes his eyes, dozing lightly as he tries to will away the tension from the many ceremonies of the day.

Before too long, he can hear a key turning in the lock to his bedroom door and the soft screech of a rusted door hinge as it swings slightly open.

Len slips into the room and quickly closes the door again behind himself, pausing a moment to sigh in relief before he moves to deposit his own crown on the vanity beside Barry’s.

Barry, who is no longer dozing, finds himself mesmerized by the glint of the two new rings on Len’s left hand as his husband turns to Barry and saunters across the room to their marriage bed. He slowly unbuttons his navy blue coat and waistcoat, dropping both on the floor in his wake before he leans down to shuck off his boots, moving with less finesse than Barry before he deems himself sufficiently undressed to climb onto the bed.

“Eager, aren’t you?” Barry murmurs, not entirely displeased when Len impatiently tugs the covers off Barry’s naked form, pausing momentarily to drink in the sight. It feels good to be so desired.

“I used to dream about you,” Len replies as he covers Barry’s body with his clothed one, hips wedged between Barry’s spread thighs, pressing a kiss against the corner of his husband’s mouth. “Your memory kept me sane when I was trapped down below.”

There’s a small sliver of guilt in Barry’s heart as he thinks back on the time they spent apart. He’s already told Len how Eobard tried to kill the idea of them being soulmates to support Zolomon’s claim to that connection instead, but it still hurts to remember how naïve he was to doubt his lover. “I should’ve had faith in you.”

“That was hardly your fault,” Len replies, finally pressing a proper kiss against his lips, tongue darting in briefly with a delightful tease. On his next breath, he says, “But if you’re still feeling bad about it, there’s a painfully simple way to make it up to me.”

Barry smiles, hooking his hands behind Len’s neck to keep him close enough to kiss at will. “You want to complete our marriage agreement?”

Len quirks an eyebrow at him, clearly amused with how coy Barry is being about it. “Long and hard, Scarlet. In fact, the longer and harder, the better.”

Barry chuckles, blushing a little from the familiar term of endearment. “There’s a vial of oil on the nightstand. Do with it what you will.”

“Of course,” Len muses, smirk evident in his voice as he reaches over to snatch said vial. Barry lets his hands slide free from his husband’s neck as Len sits back up and pops the lid open. “Anything for your country, right?”

Barry resists the urge to roll his eyes as Len dribbles the oil onto his right hand, coating his fingers thoroughly. Then he slips his hand between Barry’s legs, index finger probing behind his balls. There’s the sudden, sharp sensation of penetration before Len winks at him and ducks his head to take Barry into his mouth.

Barry is taken by surprise by the duel sensations of Len’s warm mouth and cool finger, hips bucking once in shock when Len finally curls said finger against Barry’s prostate. A second follows shortly, followed by a third, resulting in a familiar ache that has Barry fisting the bedsheets on either side of his hips. It’s an honest effort not to squirm, trying hard to keep his hips still as Len gently bobs his head, pressing his tongue hard against the underside of Barry’s cock. In fact, Len is quickly driving him too close to the precipice of what promises to be a pretty amazing orgasm.

Eventually, Len lifts his head and leans forward to press a kiss against Barry’s quivering stomach. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Like you’ve been a diligent husband so far,” Barry gasps, whole body shuddering when Len curls a finger against Barry’s prostate again. “But you might want to move things along before I finish prematurely.”

Len, thankfully, doesn’t have to be told twice.

Still kneeling between his legs, Barry gets a great view of what he has to deal with as Len opens the fasteners on his trousers and begins slicking himself up. He’s long and of an appreciative girth—and surprisingly warm, given his general low body temperature. In fact, when he finally guides himself inside and leans forward to cage Barry between his arms, Barry can finally feel the heat radiating off him. It feels so good, Barry clamps his legs around Len’s waist and holds him there for a moment just to enjoy the sensation. It isn’t until Len begins impatiently nipping at the skin along his throat that Barry loosens his grip and cants his hip to urge his husband onward.

Barry wraps his hands up around Len’s back, digging his nails into the undulating muscles as Len begins the rhythmic push and pull of his hips. He closes his eyes and thinks back to the time they spent together in the lake, enveloped in one another’s arms. He knew back then that they were irrevocably connected even if nothing miraculous happened, that perhaps fate had always intended for them to meet in that bleak period in Barry’s life where hope was half of a lie and salvation was nothing more than the bitter bait at the end of Zolomon’s hook.

Opening his eyes again, he finds himself suddenly pinned beneath Len’s silvery gaze. The man has a look of wonderment on his face, brow gently furrowed with concentration as he increases his rhythm, pulling the pleasure long and hard from the base of Barry’s spine, as promised.

“What?” Barry breathes, smiling.

Len presses down against him, hooking one arm under Barry’s back, pulling him closer. He kisses Barry’s temple, damp with perspiration, and whispers, “I love you.”

Barry digs his nails in deeper, knees pressed tight against Len’s flanks as a shudder passes through him. A familiar warmth settles low in his pelvis before he feels his pleasure peaking. His orgasm hits him in waves with every pass Len makes against his prostate, clenching down reflexively, feeling somewhat faint as Len transitions to a slow, hard grind. It isn’t too long before Len slows to a stuttered halt, leaning down heavily into Barry as he tries to catch his breath.

Barry’s too exhausted to really care about the added weight. He’s sticky with sweat and semen, and Len’s messed up his clothes, so he knows they’ll both be getting up sooner rather than later to fix themselves.

“You are indeed a man of your word, Bartholomew.”

Barry freezes.

Len is the first to react, rolling off of Barry, but thankfully pulling the bedsheet over his husband along the way to preserve Barry’s modesty. He’s also tucked himself away in what Barry considers record time, looking particularly peeved as he sits up and glares at the shadow of his sister where she’s relaxing on the chaise lounge.

Barry _knows_ she wasn’t there when he came in, so he’s tempted to believe her when she says, “I only just got here, Lenny. _Relax_. I didn’t see anything.”

“ _Lise_ ,” Len still growls. “You should learn to knock before you wind up seeing _something_ one of these days.”

Lisamarie laughs, a lovely trill that Barry still can’t help but admire. “I promise you, I’m not all that interested in what goes on behind your bedroom doors. I simply had a bit of good news to share with you.”

“It couldn’t have waited until the wedding brunch tomorrow?” Barry asks, sitting fully upward, bedsheet bundled up over his lap.

“It could,” she sighs, “but only if Lenny dearest wants to miss out on the _fun_ part.”

“The ‘fun’ part of what?” Len asks, sounding only mildly less irritated. He reaches over to squeeze Barry’s thigh through the bedsheets, a gesture Barry hopefully interprets as a promise to commence with round two once they’re alone again.

“I’ve sniffed him out,” Lisamarie says, the humor finally slipping from her voice. Her gold eyes flash devilishly in the dim light as she rises to her feet. She looks taller, somehow, exuding a kind of cold confidence Barry often recognizes in her brother. “I thought you might like to be there in his final moment.”

Barry knows all too well the hatred Len harbors for his father. He sounded like a right bastard, from what Barry was told, someone who wasn’t all too better than Zolomon.

There’s a long, tense silence as Len entertains whatever dark or conflicted thoughts are currently running through his mind. He’s pulled from his reverie when Barry leans over to kiss him gently on the cheek and whispers. “Don’t miss the brunch.”

Len turns his head to catch a proper kiss before Barry can pull away.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he promises.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: If I had another month, this story probably would've been twice as long and more fleshed out. In any case, I hope you enjoyed the story as it stands. I do apologize for making it so infernally long.


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